


Holiday Blues Part Two

by kasviel



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, M/M, Romance, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27409984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasviel/pseuds/kasviel
Summary: The third story in my gay Batman Alternate Universe: please read Written On A Bullet first, then Holiday Blues Part One.





	1. Dawn of the Storm

[January 25, 2015]

Gotham City was a mess.

“DENT FAMILY MURDERED IN BOMBING,” the headlines read on December 15. The article explained: “Harvey Dent, 33, and his wife Gilda, 30, were killed when a bomb went off in their home in suburban Gotham. Dent won the election for District Attorney in November, becoming the youngest DA the city has seen in over a decade. While no suspect has been apprehended, many are pointing to Dent's aggressive actions against organized crime as a possible motivation for this brutal action.”

On New Year's Day, the papers cried, “ALBERTO FALCONE MURDERED BY HOLIDAY KILLER!!!”

“BATMAN ON A RAMPAGE?” asked the most recent edition of the Gotham Gazette, claiming, “CAPED CRUSADER JUST WON'T QUIT!”

Robert Halloran's only contact with the headlines was when his shoes crumpled the newspapers on the streets. He was very busy these days, carrying out his father's instructions at HalloTech and overseeing the final stages of the still-unnamed nightclub he and Roman Sionis would soon be opening. He spent his days sober and studious, much to the amazement of HalloTech employees. By night, he wallowed in drugs and alcohol at the unopened club, surrounded by his usual crowd of friends.

Selina Kyle had successfully merged Janus Cosmetics into her own label, Kitty Cosmetology, by this time. She cared little for her growing business empire, however. She was immersed in the Holiday mystery, following it always back to its source: the Falcone family. She was growing less and less fond of robbing Carmine Falcone, for fear of being shot in the back during some robbery by Holiday. Her window for answers and revenge was shrinking. Over coffee one morning, she crushed the front page of a newspaper into a ball after seeing the Holiday killer once again given the front page headline. She threw it to the floor, where her Siamese cat began to bat the wad of paper around blithely.

Edward Nigma (formerly Nashton) was homeless. He traveled the streets as a bum, his vibrant green suit dirty from being worn under layers of raggedy castoffs. He had grown his hair out nearly to his shoulders, and streaked with so much dirt it looked more black than red. He never went anywhere without a hat on to shield his face from the street cameras, some old green bowler he found in a donation bin. Though he walked with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed, he wore a grin on his face. In the basement of one of the many out-of-business storefronts deep in the slums of the city, he had built himself a lair … and a new machine.

Oswald Cobblepot relished reading the morning news. Both the Falcone and Maroni organizations were being cut to shreds by this Holiday killer, and the streets were nearing anarchy. He had slowly started reaching out into the tender wounds, making promises of stitching them back together. Some men had even started coming over from the crumbling old mob families. Before long, he would be ready to strike at the heart of the criminal underworld and stake his claim on his corner of it once and for all. He could not have orchestrated events any better himself.

The winter holidays were over, and a slew of new ones brooded on the horizon of 2015. Gotham City had been whipped into a bloodthirsty, terrified, depressive, sadistic frenzy. Crime rates were steadily rising, despite Batman's efforts: petty instances of violence and crimes of passion had broken out like a rash on the city. This was the storm that Bruce had seen coming, but he knew they were still a ways out from being in the eye of it.

* * *

Bruce Wayne was tired of Carmine Falcone. He could not believe that less than a month after losing his only son on New Year's day, 'the Roman' was sitting here at the Bank of Gotham lobbying for a spot on the board. Bruce did not intend to give the man an ounce more leniency, not as Bruce Wayne or as Batman.

“No.”

All the men, most much older than he, turned to look at Bruce. He stood, palms rested on the top of the smooth wood of the conference table. Falcone's sharp brown eyes narrowed just a bit, but his face was expressionless.

“This bank was founded for the purpose of benefiting Gotham City,” Bruce said. “For generations, it has stood as benefactor to and beneficiary of all the good citizens of the city. I cannot give my vote in favor of this man bringing his blood money in to make a mockery and a sham of this institution.”

It was silent enough to hear a pin drop.

“I will not hold your moral grandstanding against you, Mr. Wayne,” Falcone said calmly. He stood, smoothing his steel gray suit down with his hands. “You have a tendency towards it due to the horrible tragedy that befell your parents, I understand. As you know, I have also lost family to violence.”

Bruce bristled inside at the nerve of Falcone comparing the random murder of his parents to the death of his son. Alberto Falcone's death had been tragic, Bruce allowed that much, but the blame for it was squarely on Falcone's shoulders. Carmine had made his fortune in crime, it was inevitable that violence followed him like metal to a magnet.

“Is any money really clean these days, though?” Falcone went on. “Corporation dollars are tainted with the misery of the factory workers that slave away to manufacture their products. Technology companies sell the secrets of those who use their services to the highest bidder, or to the government, no matter the danger to the client. Law firms make their millions by protecting all of those I mentioned and more. Even diamonds are dripping with blood.”

“Your money drips with more than blood.” Bruce lifted his briefcase from the floor and set it on the conference table. He opened it and retrieved several folder files, tossing them at the men seated around the table. “Drugs. Prostitution. Illegal gambling and fighting. All these crimes have been connected to the so-called 'Roman Empire'.”

The men were looking through the folders with distaste on their faces. Bruce had gotten special permission from Commissioner Gordon to use especially gruesome police reports, complete with crime scene photos. The executives were browsing pictures of hookers beaten within an inch of their life, drug addicts sprawled out dead with needles still stuck in their arms, men who had no way to escape their gambling debts with self-inflicted gunshot wounds, underground fighters who had lost eyes, ears, even limbs.

Falcone was still standing, so he had a view of the pictures as the other men went through them. He met Bruce's eyes over the table, and his dark brown eyes were blazing with suppressed rage. Bruce was gratified to have finally gotten under his skin.

“I hate to be this crass, but the reality of what the Falcone organization brings to Gotham should not be swept under the rug,” Bruce said, looking at each man in turn. “Mr. Falcone says that no money is clean, and I agree with him. Business is complicated and cutthroat by nature. But there is dirt, gentlemen … and then there is filth.”

Falcone was normally reserved, but now he clenched his fist on the table.

“What if that girl was your daughter, Mr. Barnes?” Bruce asked one man as he began to walk around the table. “George, how would you feel if your son had ended up like this man instead of completing rehab? Mr. Wellington, what if your son's gambling losses had been to Mr. Falcone here instead of to Las Vegas?”

The room belonged to Bruce, and both he and Falcone knew it.

“But enough theatrics,” Bruce said, gathering the folders back up from the relieved men. “Shall we put it to a vote?”

Only two men who were ruthlessly greedy voted in favor of giving Falcone a seat on the board of the bank. Bruce shut the explicit files up in his briefcase and shook hands with the others. Falcone stormed out without a word to any of them. He was waiting for Bruce on the steps of the bank, hands in his coat pocket, hat tilted on his head in the old-fashioned way he liked to wear it.

Bruce set his mind into that over-focused mode he used when in combat. He watched Falcone's coat for any sign that he was going to draw a gun. He took his hands out of his pockets, but they were empty. He stomped up to Bruce and pointed into his chest with a heavy tap.

“I have been very courteous to you, out of respect for your father,” Falcone said furiously. “I do not forget that your father saved my father's life that night. He was a reasonable man, a man that understood the hierarchy of this city. He had respect. But you!”

“My father was a surgeon,” Bruce said simply. “He swore an oath to do no harm.”

“You understand nothing, Bruce,” Carmine said. He looked away, into the city, and then looked up at Bruce again. “I have never harmed you. You have enjoyed the benefits of my leniency, if not my friendship. All I asked in return was respect. And what do you do?”

Falcone climbed onto a step above Bruce's so that their faces were level. Bruce did not give him the courtesy of looking at him. He watched his car down below, where Alfred was waiting.

“You stand up in front of the most important men in this city, and you disrespect me with that farce,” Falcone hissed into Bruce's ear. “That's what you do!”

Bruce squinted his eye at the sudden shout in his ear. Falcone rocked back on his heels, glaring at him. Bruce wondered what it was about Gotham City that made everyone feel they were entitled to unearned respect.

“I will not look out for you anymore, Bruce,” Falcone told him. “It pains me to say it, but I cannot tolerate this disrespect any longer. That you would stand there and insult me to my face in front of those men, as if I were nothing more than a common hood. That you would do such a thing to me, and when I am mourning my only son. You are an arrogant upstart, and I will not stand for such treatment. Have a care, Bruce Wayne. Have a care that you do not cross me again in the slightest fashion. A further slight would be _tragic_ for us all. And I for one have had enough of tragedy.”

Falcone turned and went down the steps, to his own car and the thugs that awaited him. Bruce sighed, his breath frosting the air, and briskly went down the rest of the concrete stairs. Alfred opened his car door for him.

“I assume the vote went against Mr. Falcone then, sir?” Alfred asked as Bruce stepped into the car.

Bruce smiled at him from inside the car. Alfred nodded in approval and shut him in. He went around the car and got into the driver's seat.

“Where to, sir?”

“The Gotham Police Department,” Bruce directed, his smile fading. “I need to see a friend.”

* * *

Bruce dreaded going to the GCPD lately. When Jim Gordon had shown up on his doorstep back in December, he had been shocked. Gordon was a friend, but he rarely made the long drive out to Wayne manor. The look on the man's face had scared the hell out of Bruce. Given that he had just broken up with Robert Halloran, he had assumed the worst: that Bobby had killed himself with an overdose or by driving too fast while under the influence.

Bobby had not been the one to suffer that night, however. A bomb had gone off at the new home of Harvey and Gilda Dent. The media was already aflame with reports of the horrendous double murder of the District Attorney and his wife. Bruce had only just locked the Joker back up in Arkham to protect Harvey Dent after the clown had severely beaten him. To hear that he had fallen victim yet again shook him badly.

Jim had been quick to tell Bruce that Harvey was not dead. They had spoken in hushed tones in the den, over drinks that even Bruce allowed himself to indulge in. Gordon intended to let the world believe that Harvey was dead, for his own protection. It would allow them to work on their planned take-down of the mob families with more freedom, and without fear of further violence. In fact, Jim had driven out to Wayne Manor for the sake of begging Bruce's help in the plot; Harvey was badly wounded, and Jim did not have the resources to take care of him in secret.

Bruce had been quick to pledge his help. Bruce and Jim had sneaked Harvey Dent into the Gotham City PD. Alfred, a former combat medic for the British Army, tended the unconscious DA's injuries in an unused, derelict prison cell in the basement. The GCPD, like much of Gotham, had many sealed rooms that had been damaged due to flooding, Gotham being on the water. While Harvey was cared for, Bruce had gone into the city and gathered supplies to make the old prison cells habitable. He rarely noticed being rich enough that no one questioned his needs or wants, but he appreciated it that night. Before noon the next day, the cell had been turned into a makeshift hospital room, and Harvey was resting comfortably.

No amount of care or money could buy health, however. Harvey had not been inside the house when it blew up. He had been in the backyard shed fetching a hammer to put up stockings over the mantle when Gilda Dent plugged in the Christmas Tree and triggered the detonation. There was nothing left of Gilda to bury, but Harvey survived. By the time Jim got to the scene, the shed had been on fire. He pulled Harvey from the burning rubble, put him in his car, and drove him out to Wayne Manor. From there they had brought him to the abandoned cells beneath the GCPD, where Alfred treated him as best he could.

The burns were not very severe, the worst being the blackened and cracking flesh on Harvey's left hand. It was when Harvey woke up to the news that his wife was dead that the full extent of the damage became evident. Harvey would not speak or eat for days, forcing Bruce to bring an IV in to keep him alive. When he did begin speaking, he would only talk about their investigations against Falcone and Maroni. He had no rage or sadness, no kind of emotion in him at all. It was as if all of Harvey Dent had gone, leaving behind only a shell.

Jim was not at the station. Bruce was the only other person that had access to the abandoned cells. He waited around the station inconspicuously, and then slipped away. He went down a long metal stairwell, then down the ramp that led down into the ruins of the old prison.

Harvey was in the largest cell. The moss-covered stone walls had been draped with clean white sheets and plastic. A small hospital cot had been put in the back of the cell, and the rest of it was furnished with a chair, bedside table, and a small TV. A portable toilet booth was placed in the back of the cell. It was dismal, but modestly comfortable.

Harvey was sitting up, which was a change from his usual despondent lying on the bed. He was practically naked in the thin white hospital gown, his once-strapping body noticeably thinner from his depression-driven fast. His dark hair was disheveled and unwashed, his eyes stamped by dark circles, and he was deathly pale. The robustness that had driven the media to call him 'Apollo' had faded. Every time he saw him, Bruce's heart twisted for his friend.

“How are you, Harvey?”

“How am I?” Harvey made a derisive sound. “You know, you ask me that every time you see me. Even when I was a zombie, you would sit down in that chair and ask me, how am I? How do you _think_ I am, Bruce?”

“I can't imagine.”

“No, you can't,” Harvey said. “You lost your parents and that's horrible, but … ”

“Go on.” Bruce sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “Just say it.”

“Parents are the past, Bruce,” Harvey said, more gently than Bruce had expected him to be. “Gilda was my _wife_. She was my future. She was going to be … pregnancy tests and sonograms and a big belly growing life inside it— _our_ life. She was growing old and having coffee on cold winter mornings when both our bones ached and I'd be bored to death of retirement. She was my life, Bruce, and she's just … gone. My future is over, but I'm still here.”

Bruce knew there was no way he could convince Harvey of anything else. He knew how it felt to feel one's life shatter, the black hole of despair that consumed all hope. No words could bring a person back from that void.

“And for what?” Harvey asked. “What was it all for? Justice? Ha! What a joke! I could incarcerate every last scumbag in Gotham, or even _kill_ them all, but Gilda would still be dead. She would still have gone without any justice. There is no justice, Bruce. There's just power. That's what protects people, keeps them safe, that's all that matters … and even then, look at you. Look at your parents, most powerful people in the city, gunned down like animals in the street. Will they ever get justice?”

“I think that justice is all we have left, Harvey,” Bruce said. “It won't bring our loved ones back. It won't be even. Justice is never equal. But it is all we have to strive for.”

“Nah, it's not,” Harvey said. He jumped down from the bed. He wobbled on his feet, but stayed standing. “Revenge, Bruce. There's also revenge.”

Bruce watched him as he tugged his IV out of his arm.

“Is that what you're living for now, Harvey?”

“Does it matter?” Harvey said plainly. He saw the look on Bruce's face and smirked. “Don't worry there, Bruce. I'm not going to kill anyone. No, I'm going to tear them to the ground and leave them alive to watch it. I'm going to _burn_ them, the way Batman and I burned that warehouse of their cash that night. I'm going to dismantle this city piece by piece. I don't care what happens in the aftermath. I just have to _destroy_ it all.”

“You're sure you're not going to do anything reckless?”

“Nah,” Harvey said. He opened the suitcase of clothing that Bruce had brought him and whistled. “Man, these are nice. One shirt is worth more than all of my old stuff.”

Harvey took off the hospital gown, to Bruce's dismay.

“What?” he said innocently. “It's nothing you haven't seen and felt before. Anyway, Batman would never help me again, if I killed someone. He might have me locked up, never mind all the shit I've been through. Batman's as big a prude as you are. But it doesn't matter. I _want_ those animals in a cage.”

Bruce tried not to watch Harvey dress, and failed. He was thinner, a touch softer, but he was still an alluring sight. It was a indecent thing to do, desire a widower, and finally Bruce looked away.

“Besides, Holiday has a body count higher than any I could rack up,” Harvey said. “If they blew up my house to kill me because they thought Gi—because they thought _I_ was Holiday, well, the joke is on them. A joke worthy of the goddamn Joker, that right there. Hey, did they ever catch him? The Joker, I mean?”

“Batman caught him the same night that … Well, that night,” Bruce said quietly. He was still shamed by the victory he had celebrated over that capture, while his friend was being devastatingly attacked. “He's in Arkham.”

“Until he escapes again,” Harvey said. “I don't know, Bruce. I understand why you hate murder. I guess Batman has his reasons for it, too. Sometimes, I just—I don't know. It all seems so pointless.”

“The point is to rise above the world people like Gordon and Batman and you fight against,” Bruce said. “The point is to be better than that. Do you think every psychopath in Arkham Asylum started out trying to be evil? Some of them did, sure, but many had good intentions. It's a finer line between justice and cruelty than people think.”

“And there's somethin' wrong with bein' cruel to cruel people?” Harvey asked. The hard edge in his voice was very evident, and the city accent he had lost in college and law school was stronger than ever. Something in him had reverted to his old, unpolished self.

“There's something wrong with cruelty for cruelty's sake,” Bruce said. “That lust for violence grows, it consumes until there's nothing else left. Justice tempers the need to hurt, the need for revenge or cruelty. It's purpose isn't only to satisfy the pain of victims, it's to try and change things so that there are less victims.”

Harvey was not convinced, but he was in no mood to fight. He did not care about anyone's morals, not even his own. He had a goal, and all he cared about was seeing it through.

Bruce stood and came over to Harvey once he was dressed. He put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

“Harvey, are you sure you're ready to leave?” he asked. “If you are, I'll tell Gordon to spirit you out of this place. But only last week, you wouldn't even get out of bed. Are you sure you don't need more time?”

“Time to do what?” Harvey asked. “Sit around thinkin' about everything I don't have? If I got to sit in here doing that for one more day, Bruce, then Holiday is gonna have a partner in me.”

“Don't say things like that,” Bruce said. He straightened Harvey's tie, which the man had tied awkwardly due to his burned hand. “You say you're fine now, but when you come to face these people, when this is over and you return to life in the public eye, will you be okay? There is no shame in needing more time, Harvey. There's no shame in taking a break to take care of yourself.”

Bruce had not been thinking anything of their closeness, until Harvey closed the short distance between their profiles to kiss him. Stunned, Bruce dropped his tie. It had been months now, but it felt like the Frost Ball was only yesterday. Harvey's lips were smooth as silk, his breath warm and desperate. Bruce's body would have kissed the man back forever, but in his horror he pushed him away.

“Why don't _you_ take care of me, Bruce?” Harvey said, licking his lips. He shrugged. “It's what you always wanted, isn't it? But what was the problem? I was married, right? Well, that's done. So why not?”

“Harvey, you don't want that,” Bruce said sharply. “What the hell is the matter with you? Your wife has been buried less than a month—”

“Buried? Oh, she's not _buried_ ,” Harvey retorted. “You need at least part of a body for burial.”

Bruce realized that putting a television in the room had been a mistake.

“Harvey, you're not well,” Bruce said gently. “Here, get back in bed. I'll bring you a pill.”

“No!” Harvey shouted, pushing Bruce away forcefully. “You think I don't know what those pills you keep givin' me are?”

Harvey retrieved a bottle and flung it at Bruce.

“Jim dropped it,” Harvey said, his voice dripping with disgust. “Lithium! Fucking _lithium_ , Bruce? What the hell is the matter with you, givin' me that crap?”

“Harvey, you've always shown signs of Bipolar Disorder,” Bruce said. “You can't deny that it was helping with your mood swings. Is that why you're like this now? You stopped taking the pills?”

“Damn straight I stopped takin' 'em!” Harvey said furiously. “I've been goin' through hell since November! And just because I make a few mistakes, have a few mood swings, you think I'm crazy? I'm not crazy, Bruce!”

“There's no shame in having a psychological disorder, Harvey,” Bruce tried to sway him. “Come on, you're educated. You know that it isn't a sign of weakness to seek help.”

“Yeah, _if_ you're nuts,” Harvey said. “But I'm not.”

“You're saying that you're in complete control of yourself? Of your emotions?” Bruce asked. “Do you expect me to believe that you care so little about your wife's death that you would kiss me one month after she died?”

“I didn't say I didn't care,” Harvey said. “I only said, why not? I mean, I betrayed her when she was _alive_ , didn't I? What's there to betray now? A memory? I wasn't good enough for her, I'm not even good enough for her ghost. I can't honor her memory because honor's a thing I never had. So, I'm sayin', _why not_?”

“Harvey, this isn't you,” Bruce said. He had a lump in his throat and his heart was aching. Did the city have to ruin everything that was good and beautiful? “Don't do this. Please, just go back to bed. Just stop.”

“Oh, I know,” Harvey said. He reached into his pocket and took out his father's double-sided Liberty Dollar. He turned it back and forth. It had been singed on one side in the fire, permanently marred. “It's got _two_ sides now, see? So how about it, Bruce? Heads, you can have me. Tails, you get to keep your moral high ground. Sound good?”

“Harvey, stop it!” Bruce said harshly. He took him by the shoulders and shook him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

In truth, Bruce was afraid. This was not an enemy he could fight, some problem of logic to be puzzled out. He did not know how to save his friend as he slipped away into this darkness, and the helplessness terrified him.

Harvey just grinned when Bruce stopped shaking him. He flipped the coin, caught it, turned it over.

“Here we go.”

The coin had come up heads. Harvey pulled Bruce into a fierce kiss. Bruce's body ignited with desire, and he cursed the man for putting him through this agony. He tried to pull Harvey off, but he was strong with manic determination.

“Harvey, stop,” Bruce commanded, prying Harvey's hands off. “Harvey, stop it. You don't want to do this. Harvey … Harvey! Enough!”

Bruce gave the man a hefty shove. Harvey approached him again, and Bruce took him by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the old, rusted cell bars. Harvey grunted, wincing.

“That's _enough_ , Harvey,” Bruce said. “I'm not going to let you become this … this person. No. You're grieving, and I respect that. I'm going to make sure that _you_ respect it. Here.”

Bruce took a pill from the bottle he had brought and pushed it at Harvey.

“No, I told you, I don't need that crap!” Harvey protested. “I don't need it!”

“Yes, you do, Harvey,” Bruce said, firmly but gently. “You do.”

“No, I … I don't.” Harvey stopped struggling. He looked confused and troubled. “Do you think I do, Bruce? Do you really think that I need that?”

Bruce was beginning to wonder if Harvey needed something stronger. He had never seen such brief, intense episodes before. Harvey did not go from one mood to the other so much as he was _simultaneously_ in both moods.

“Jesus, Bruce, what the hell am I doing?” Harvey asked. Bruce released him, and he walked in a daze back towards the bed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean …. I don't know what's wrong with me. Oh God. Oh God, oh God … ”

Harvey sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. Bruce hesitated, but decided that it was safe enough to be near him again. He sat beside him, though he did not touch him.

“I'm scared, Bruce,” Harvey whispered, hugging himself now. “Gilda was always the one that held me together. She was the only one that could bring me back from those dark places I go to. What am I going to do without her?”

Bruce offered him the pill. Harvey took it, staring at the little pill in his palm with a guarded look.

“It's a very low dosage,” Bruce assured him. “Only enough to keep your mood even.”

“If I take this, will you tell Jim that I'm done with this place?” Harvey asked. “I know I can't just walk out, he's planning to keep my survival secret a while longer. He has some plan to sneak me out. Will you tell him to come get me?”

“All right, I will.”

Bruce got Harvey a water bottle from the small refrigerator next to the bed. Harvey put the pill in his mouth and swallowed it down with water. Bruce eyed him suspiciously.

“You'll have to take my word for it,” Harvey said. “I'm not openin' my mouth for you again. I can't believe I … I'm sorry, Bruce.”

“It's all right, Harvey.”

“No, nothin' is all right,” Harvey said bleakly. He lay back on the bed, his legs still hanging off the edge. “Nothing is ever going to be all right again. This world is wrong, Bruce. It's just wrong.”

There was no possible way that Bruce could argue with that, and so he did not try.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Bruce finally asked. “Something to eat?”

“I'd kill for a cheeseburger, but I'll get one when I'm out of here,” Harvey said. “This place kills my appetite.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No.” Harvey sat back up. “You'd better go, Bruce. I … I need to be alone right now.”

“Okay.” Bruce stood. “I'll see you later, Harvey. Try to be strong.”

“Yeah,” Harvey said despondently. “Sure. Strong. I'll be strong. Can't really be anything else right now, can I?”

“Sometimes it's the only thing left.”

“Heh. I hear that.”

Bruce left him there, alone and underground. In truth, he was not certain that his resolve to be honorable would have lasted much longer. It was true, he _did_ have a habit of taking care of people, needing to save them. It was simpler to save lives on the streets: fight until he was able to take down the would-be mugger or attacker or rapist. Not for the first time, Bruce was dismayed by the impossibility of saving people from themselves. You could not beat up a psychological condition, could not defeat the pain of a staggering loss.

_It took me years,_ Bruce thought as he climbed down the steps of the GCPD. _The very year my parents died, I started fortifying myself against the ugliness of the world. I've never stopped that training, only strengthened it, and even now the wrong word, the wrong memory can almost undo me. I lost my temper at Bobby Halloran just for mentioning that alley, struck him for using my deepest fear against me. All my training, all my restraint, all my discipline, all these years … and still, I'm vulnerable. Not helpless, but vulnerable. How must Harvey feel?_

Bruce knew how Harvey felt, but he also knew that it was a different kind of pain than the one he had felt when his parents were murdered. He had been a child at the time, and though he tried to keep his pain private for the sake of pride, Alfred had never made him feel ashamed of his pain; he had not let Bruce forget that he was only a boy, and that sometimes a boy could let himself cry. Harvey was a man grown, and he had already been struggling to maintain his ego before the tragedy. All of the past year, he had been beaten repeatedly, insulted, threatened, made to feel like an insect. Then, he had lost his wife, the wife he had taken it upon himself to protect.

_I wish I could hold him, tell him that it's all right to break down,_ Bruce thought. _If we didn't have this attraction between us, I would be able to. But I could never lead him to betray his wife's memory that way. If I had only kept from losing myself on the night of the Frost Ball …_

Bruce drew a breath and exhaled as he got into his car. _No, I can't look backwards. I can't be romantic. The first year that I was Batman, I made many mistakes. Some of the mistakes were reprehensible. I hurt people. I almost lost my own life. The second year, I underestimated my place in the city. I underachieved, one could say, and that year was wasted on the small-time thugs and punks. Last year was my third year, and when it began, I was doing better than ever. Batman was going after the root of the problems in Gotham City, the big fish like Falcone and Maroni, and the so-called 'freaks' that are now filling Arkham Asylum. I thought that I had hit my stride, but I lost myself at the end of the year. First Floyd Lawton, then a one-night stand with Harvey Dent, and then I even managed to break Bobby's heart. If these were only personal mistakes, they would be bad enough, but all those mistakes have compromised Batman. Bobby knows his identity, Floyd almost figured it out, and Harvey … is a distraction._

_I can't waste this year. I have to focus. I need to break habit and spend more than my nights as Batman. It's time to face the dawn._


	2. Power Games

Robert Halloran collapsed onto a black snake skin lounge sofa. He leaned his head back on the luxurious, smooth cushions, staring at the ceiling. Chandelier glass drops that looked like daggers of purple crystal dangled far overhead, glowing subtly in the diffused lounge lighting. The open second floor of the club swirled before Bobby's eyes, and he rubbed them vigorously.

“You're supposed to snort it, not use it for an eye rub.”

Bobby rolled onto his side, looking up blearily. Roman Sionis was standing before him, chuckling. The dull black eyes were cynical as ever, and his bold bones stood out beneath his pale, hairless skin. He had just come in from outside, evident from his black coat and black leather gloves.

“Where's Circe?” Bobby asked of Roman's model girlfriend, who was to be the face of their new club. He did not like Circe very much, he had recently decided. She was snootier than most models, which was saying a lot in this city. “Modeling for Kitty Cosmetology?”

A shadow passed over Roman's face, which pleased Bobby. Roman had been forced to sell most of his shares of his family's company, Janus Cosmetics, to Selina Kyle's successful Kitty Cosmetology. Circe used to model for Janus, and now she had gone on working for Ms. Kyle. Though she still dated Roman, Bobby knew that he was insecure about no longer being her boss.

“We have business to talk about,” Roman said, ignoring the remark. He grabbed Bobby by the arm and pulled him off the sofa. “Come on, let's go up to the office.”

“Mmm,” Bobby agreed woozily. He rubbed his head, which was throbbing and zooming and doing many odd things. “Circe?”

“She's with Selina,” Roman said irritably. “She'll be around tonight.”

Bobby said nothing. He looked around the club as they walked through it. The place was really very beautiful, outfitted with only the best in décor and technology. The furniture was black, a myriad of rich textures varying it, the walls were white, and the chandeliers were made of silver and that jewel-like purple glass that looked so much like amethyst. On a platform above the dance floor was the DJ's booth, and they already had some of the world's best spinners booked to perform. There was also a real stage at the back of the room, in front of the dance floor, as in clubs of bygone eras. On the top floor, there were Virtual Reality stations for the technologically-inclined, TV screens that took up whole walls, and a section of private booths that offered seclusion but still looked out onto the life of the club. There was no form of entertainment the club could not offer, and they already had plans to expand onto higher floors of the building to offer even more variety. Bobby and Roman planned to make this the go-to playground for wealthy adults in Gotham City.

Roman and Bobby climbed the stairs up. The building was built with an open design, so every floor looked out upon the center of the first floor, which they had designed to be the dance floor and stage. Small screens were hung on the walls here and there, giving additional views of the activity going on above and below. Speakers were everywhere to convey the booming music steadily throughout all three floors. It was quiet now, but when they opened not an inch of the club would be silent.

The office made up the better part of the third floor. The privacy glass was bulletproof and fireproof, and the sprawling room could be locked down by either owner with retina and fingerprint identification. No one could see into the office, but Roman and Bobby could look out at the floors below through the glass wall in front. There was also a security display hidden behind a panel that showed every corner of the club, even the private booths, in small video feeds. The office was decorated as lavishly as the rest of the place, with its own lounge seating, TV, refrigerator, dry bar, and other comforts. Bobby had fallen asleep on the sofa more than once. He and Roman kept clothing stocked in a hidden closet behind another panel.

“So,” Bobby said, going straight for the bar, “what business do we have to discuss?”

“We need a name, Bobby,” Roman told him. “The mystery club we're promoting has everyone excited, but they need details soon. If we wait any longer, people will forget about this place, and some other club will steal the spotlight.”

Bobby downed scotch. Roman had been on him to make these decisions, but he didn't know _why_. He was the majority shareholder, but he could have cared less about managing anything. He had enough to deal with at HalloTech without having to micromanage this place, too.

“So?” he shrugged. “Name it.”

“Don't you have any input?” Roman asked. He sat on a sofa, arms spread over its back. “Do you even care about this anymore, Bobby?”

Bobby shrugged.

“You were excited about this place a month ago!” Roman snapped. “What happened to you? Is this because of Bruce Wayne?”

“Who gives a fuck what this is about?” Bobby asked angrily. “You have my money, right? That's what you came to me for, you have it, so what's the problem?”

“The problem is, I've seen this happen before,” Roman said. He looked Bobby over, appraising him. “First, Tom Blake was robbed. Then he started with the drinking, more drugs, and he stopped caring about our plans, this place, all of it. Before I knew it, he had a screw loose and had high-tailed it to Africa, leaving me high and dry. I want you to care about this place, because if you don't it's only a matter of time before you decide to bail on me, too.”

“I have money invested in this,” Bobby reminded him. “I can't just bail.”

“Yeah, you can,” Roman said. “You're a Halloran. It would be like losing a dollar to you. Besides, you don't care about money, making _or_ spending it.”

Bobby drank more scotch. He squinted over at Roman. _He's scared,_ he realized in fascination. _This is his last shot to maintain his lifestyle. He'll have really lost everything if this place goes under, even with his two-cent stake in what's left of Janus. He's terrified._

“You need me.”

Roman's eyes, so dark they looked like obsidian, glimmered. He was a man trying to cling to his last shred of pride, but Bobby knew the truth. He knew that a man in Roman's position could not afford to have any pride. After failing to break through Bruce's obstinate pride to win his heart, Bobby was in no mood to leave anyone to their delusions of ego.

“You need me,” Bobby repeated, walking over to Roman. “Not just my money, _me_. You need me to help promote the club. You need me to care. You need me to front it.”

Roman shifted his eyes. In that tiny gesture, Bobby knew that he had him. He had been seeing the signs all along, but his substance-addled mind had not put it all together until now. _How could I be so stupid?_ Bobby wondered. _The meetings Roman has had with that weird guy, Cobblepot, and the excess of deliveries …_

Bobby laughed, unnerving Roman.

“Roman! God!” Bobby said. He went to the bar, poured Roman a drink, and came over again to hand it to him. “I should have seen it sooner. A club isn't going to make up for losing a company. You're planning to go into business with the Penguin, aren't you?”

“Gotham is falling apart,” Roman said, accepting the drink. “It's going to need new criminals, and Oswald Cobblepot has been filling the gaps.”

Bobby nodded, taking another drink. His heart was racing with excitement. The very back of his mind was overcome with guilt over what he was considering, but this voice of conscience was fading with every sip. Bruce had not come to him after their fight. He had gone back to acting as if Bobby didn't exist. This was another thing that he could not abide any longer.

 _I exist,_ Bobby thought now. _I just don't let anyone **see** me. Bruce doesn't see me. This … **This** will get his attention. I'm not good enough for him? That's just as well. I don't **want** to be good enough for him. I don't want to hold myself up to his impossible standards. To hell with him. To hell with it all. I want this. I can have power, too, Bruce._

“So, let me get this straight,” Bobby said. “You were going to use this place as a front for your business dealings with the Penguin. And what was my role going to be in all of this?”

“I didn't think that you would want one,” Roman said. “Tom didn't know about my plans, either. I figured that if it all goes south, you would want to be able to deny knowledge of my actions. Don't you?”

“No, I don't,” Bobby said tightly. “I don't want to be left in the dark if the cops come to raid this place. I don't want to be left out of _my_ club's primary business. And I sure as hell don't want to be lied to, Roman!”

Roman was tense, but he did not dare argue back. Bobby was both pleased and annoyed. He drained his glass, and his mind whirled.

“You need me,” he said again, his voice slurred. He leaned down over Roman, caging him with his arms. “Your entire life is hanging on what I do. I could _ruin_ you today, and there wouldn't be a damn thing you could do about it. You're mine, Roman. I _own_ you.”

To his surprise, Roman grinned.

“So this is who you are,” he said. He reached out and touched Bobby's face. “This is who's behind the mask of idiocy you wear so well. You're a cruel, spiteful little shit, aren't you?”

“You're not surprised?”

“People don't surprise me,” Roman said, his voice tinted with bitterness. He finished his drink and pushed past Bobby to set it on the coffee table. Then, he smoothed down his suit, and looked at the young man frankly. “So what do you want? People pull power when they want someone to obey them. What do you want from me, Bobby?”

“I want to know how much you need me,” Bobby said, straightening. He looked down at the man curiously. “What would you do to keep me … _interested_ … in this club? How far would you go?”

“How far do you want me to go?”

 _Is this how Bruce feels when he's Batman?_ Bobby wondered. He leaned far over Roman, their faces nearly touching. Roman's dark, dark eyes tracked him, though he did not move. _Does he feel this aroused? No wonder he loves power so much. No wonder he won't give up being strong, not even for me. I wouldn't give it up, either._

Roman must have sensed his lust. He shifted on the sofa and took a hold on Bobby's hips. His lips hovered at his ear, his breath gently stirring his dark brown hair.

“What do you _want_ , Bobby?”

 _Bruce,_ Bobby thought before he could stop himself. _I want Bruce._

“I want … ” He grinned, and sat on the sofa beside Roman. He let his hands trace over Roman's strong face, his shaved hairless head. “I want you to put your gloves back on.”

Roman was puzzled, but he took the gloves from the pocket of the coat he'd slung over the sofa's arm. He slipped the smooth black leather over his hands. Bobby took one of the gloved hands in his own, running his fingers over it.

“And I want,” he said, staring at the hand, “you to take me over your knees and spank me.”

Roman's eyebrows (they were black, presumably the color of the hair he had shaved off elsewhere) raised. Though he was blushing scarlet, Bobby managed to look up and meet the man's eyes.

“Then I want you to fuck me,” he added. “I want you to fuck me so long and hard that I'm going to forget that Bruce Wayne ever existed. That's what I want. So tell me, are you willing to go that far? Do you need me that much?”

“You're a kinky guy,” Roman said, amused. He tracked one gloved finger down the side of Bobby's boyish face. “If that's what you want, well, I've fucked worse for less payoff. Take off your clothes.”

Bobby stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. Roman sat back on the sofa watching him with those empty black eyes, one leg rested on the opposite knee. Bobby removed his shirt, then his slacks. The office air was hot, fragrant with liquor and new furniture. It would be worn and tawdry someday, but today everything was only waiting to be despoiled. _And we'll wallow in it,_ Bobby thought, stepping out of his pants. _For better or worse, we're going to wallow in the dirt of this club._

Roman reached forward and took Bobby by the arm when he was in his briefs and undershirt. He pulled him over to the sofa, not roughly, and sat him beside himself. There was bland expectation in his eyes as he looked his business partner over.

“You'll do,” he said. A leather-covered index finger played at Bobby's pouting bottom lip. “Pretty enough for a man.”

Without saying anything more, Roman guided him over his knees. Neither man was a stranger to any of the fetishes of Gotham's elite, and Roman was never shocked by the secrets people hid behind the masks they wore for society. Hadn't he spent his entire life masking his own problems? He had not particularly expected Bobby to be into anything so masochistic (the man was a horrible coward, after all) but he was not too shocked.

He was curious, however. He pulled down Bobby's briefs, baring his plump bottom. He lifted a gloved hand and slapped it down on one soft cheek. Even through his glove, he could feel the spongy tremble of flesh. The resounding crack was louder than he had expected. The smack left a distinct handprint on the young man's buttocks. He had gasped, but not cried out.

“Since when are you into this?” Roman asked. He eyed the man's exposed ass for a second, and then struck him again. He smiled, more gratified by the foreplay than he had expected to be. “I thought you were proud of being a bad boy?”

“I am.”

“Then why want to be punished?”

“Why do you think?” Bobby shot back, exasperated. His palms were pressed to the soft short pile of the white carpet, scraping at it distractedly. He was trying to feel the way he had when Bruce had taken him over, but he couldn't manage to do so while Roman kept opening his big mouth. He was too disinterested, too uncaring.

“It's because of Bruce Wayne, isn't it?” Roman surmised. He struck the man harder. “I saw the way he treated you at the Santa Lucia party. I wondered why you let him treat you that way, and now I know. You _liked_ it, didn't you?”

Bobby swallowed, saying nothing. He shut his eyes, wishing he could step back in time to the night of the Santa Lucia's Day party. It had been the last night that he and Bruce had been truly connected. It had been the last night that they had enjoyed each other without secrets or pride getting in the way. Perhaps that was why he had come to obsess over the punishment Bruce had given him that night.

“Did Bruce make you realize what a brat you are?” Roman asked, falling into the role he had been forced to play despite himself. Robert Halloran had a tendency to inspire sadism. “You still feel guilty about him, don't you? What do you think he'd say about you opening a club as a front for crime, huh? Didn't you say that night that he doesn't do anything illegal?”

“I don't want to talk about Bruce Wayne!” Bobby said hotly. His bottom was stinging fiercely by now, and he was beginning to think this might have been a mistake.

“We'll talk about whatever I want to talk about,” Roman said. “It was a good effort, Bobby, I'll give you that. I almost bought into your power play when you were making a point of reminding me how much I need you. Truth is, I _do_ need you, Bobby, but you need me, too. Don't you?”

“I don't need you,” Bobby said sullenly. He stared at the floor, and was surprised when tears blurred his eyes. “I don't need anyone.”

“Just let the act go already!” Roman snapped, his temper riled. He smacked the man's bottom briskly. “Your mask is too cracked for you to hide behind it anymore! Stop fucking _hiding_ , damn it! I hate liars! I fucking _hate_ pretenders!”

“Ow! Hey—owww! Roman!”

“It's what you _wanted_ ,” Roman said. “It's what you _asked_ for. You want me to punish you, so I am. I'll punish the hell out of you, you smug, arrogant, conniving little bastard! It's what you want, just admit it. Just keep the mask off for once, damn you.”

Roman was spanking him in earnest now, out of anger rather than obligation. Bobby squirmed and whimpered, chewed both his thumbnail and his bottom lip. The disappointment melded into arousal. This _was_ what he wanted, he had to admit, to be spanked for the sake of punishment rather than simply sex. He could let go when playing this role. He could be a child again, if only for a moment. Was that sick? He thought it might be, but he didn't care. Childhood had been the only good time in his life, and if he could relive it even this briefly, he would. Just another little indulgence.

“I do want it,” Bobby murmured. The tears fell, a bitter and sweet release. He sniffled, wiping a hand across his eyes. “Fine, Roman, you want to hear me say it? Fine.”

“So, say it,” Roman said with a grin, punctuating the request with an enthusiastic smack. “Tell me. I want to hear it. No one ever hears the truth in this goddamned city.”

“I need someone … who … ” Bobby drew a shuddering breath. “Who doesn't care about me. I need someone to hurt me so I forget … how much I'm hurting. Does that make sense?”

Bobby was suddenly pushed off of his lap, to the floor. He cried out in alarm. Roman was kneeling beside him when Bobby turned over. He pushed Bobby down on his back, holding his wrists to the carpet. Without a word, he crushed his mouth into his friend's. Bobby met him with equal aggression, biting his lip when they pulled apart. Roman straddled him, releasing his wrists to take his gloves off.

“No, leave them on,” Bobby huffed, reaching up to him. “Leave them on.”

Roman grabbed him with the hot leather gloves, kissing and biting his neck. He threw Bobby aside again, forcing him onto hand and knee. He squeezed the young man's bright red buttocks as he opened his pants with his other hand.

“Mm,” Bobby murmured, agonized with lust. “I know. I know what we can name this place.”

“Yeah?” Roman pinched him with a nasty twist. “What?”

“The Black Glove. We'll call it The Black Glove.”

“I think I like that.”

* * *

“Get up,” Roman said when they were finished. He was already on his feet and half-dressed. Before putting his belt back on his pants, he folded it and snapped it across Bobby's behind. “Come on. If you're going to be a part of this business, then you'd better come to this meeting I have set up today.”

Bobby lay on his stomach along the sofa, drinking from a bottle of scotch. He almost choked on it when Roman struck him. He sputtered, then took another drink. He looked over his shoulder and touched the welt. It burned fiercely.

“Like that?” Roman asked.

“I don't know,” Bobby said, considering. He buried his face in the sofa's leather cushions a moment, then raised it again. “Do it again.”

Roman obliged a few times, and then put his belt on. He chuckled, looking down at his handiwork. Bobby rubbed his bottom, cringing.

“Wayne really messed you up, didn't he?” he said. “I could hit you all day, but don't get used to me fucking you. I need to save myself for Circe.”

Bobby looked up at him, head rested on his hand.

“You love her, don't you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Roman said, his voice steely. He put on his shirt. “You know why I did this thing?”

“Why?”

“To call your bluff,” Roman said. “You're not going to let this place crash and burn now. I can see it in those big, puppy eyes of yours. You're invested now, and when you get in with this Penguin, you'll belong to this place.”

“The Black Glove,” Bobby murmured.

“Yeah, The Black Glove,” Roman agreed. He pulled Bobby by the arm. “Come on, get up. Christ, you're a lazy shit.”

Bobby stood from the sofa, and went to clean himself up in the bathroom. Roman was dressed by the time he returned. He went to the closet and got a gunmetal-colored suit. Roman poured himself a drink while he waited.

“What do you plan to do?” Bobby asked. “With the Penguin, I mean?”

“The usual: drugs, whores, money laundering,” Roman said. “He'll deal his wares through the club, which will make our audience very happy. We'll clean up some of his money. When the old mob families crumble and the Penguin becomes the big boss of Gotham City, we'll be his top men. That's power, Bobby, real power.”

“You know how to do all of this?” Bobby asked. “When did you put all of it together?”

“When I was deciding on where to buy a building for the club with Tom,” Roman said. “This building was in old Falcone territory, but when I asked around I found out that Cobblepot owns this part of town now. I reached out to him on a whim, asked for permission to open a club here, out of respect. Oh, he loved that. He played it cool, but I could tell he saw my asking as a sign that he was getting important. He loves flattery. It was easy to get on his good side after that. We came to our agreements, and that was that.”

“So why didn't you ask _him_ for the money to finish this place?” Bobby asked. “You came to me, but if you were so tight with the Penguin, you could have borrowed the money from him.”

“I want to do business with the man, not be indebted to him,” Roman explained. “You go to a man like Cobblepot as an equal, or he'll use you up and throw you away. Remember that, kid.”

“Kid,” Bobby muttered under his breath. He glared at Roman as he stepped into his slacks. “Bruce called me that. I'm twenty-seven.”

“Are you?” Roman asked disinterestedly. “Take it as a compliment. I wish I was twenty-seven again. Besides, do you really expect me to see you as a grown man when I just spent the better part of the evening spanking your ass?”

Bobby blushed, and gave the argument up. He finished dressing and looked in one of the decorative mirrors. He ran a comb through his thick dark hair a few times, and then he decided he was presentable. He could not meet his own reflection in the eye.

They left the club and Roman locked it up. They took Roman's car into the city, since he had a driver (Sionis had more sense than to entrust either of them with driving). In the back of the car, they had more drinks.

The rush of pleasure had cooled, leaving Bobby sullen and smarting. He shifted where he sat, the bruises crying out at him. He looked at Roman, but the man was distant, most likely thinking of the one he truly loved: beautiful, bitchy Circe.

 _Bruce would be holding me,_ Bobby thought, looking out. _He was stern, but he was also loving. He would comfort me, kiss me, stroke my face the way he liked to. After sex, when we were exhausted and spent, there was nothing cold, none of this usual post-sex depression. We were as close when we were just lying still together as when we were enjoying each others' bodies._

_I thought we were, anyway. But we couldn't have been. That lie was between us … **Batman** was between us … always … _

“What about the Batman?”

Roman looked sidelong at Bobby.

“What _about_ Batman?”

“He takes down criminals,” Bobby said. “We're about to become criminals. Are you seeing the problem here?”

“Scared of the big, bad Bat, kid?”

“No,” Bobby said. He smirked to himself, suddenly realizing the value of what he knew. He hid the expression by taking another drink. “Aren't you?”

“No,” Roman said. “The Batman is busy with the Falcone and Maroni families, not to mention this 'Catwoman' that keeps robbing Falcone, _and_ the Holiday killer. It'll be a long time until he gets around to the Penguin and his new organization.”

“And when he does?”

“We'll just have to be ready for him.”

The implication was plain, and it gave Bobby pause. What was he doing? The men he was about to go into business with would all gladly end the Batman's life. They would gladly end _Bruce's_ life. He was angry with Bruce, certainly, but he did not want him dead. He could not even picture a world without Bruce in it.

 _He'll protect himself,_ Bobby tried to convince himself. _If he does get too close to The Black Glove, I'll threaten him. He can do whatever he wants to me, but he won't kill me. I don't think he'd even have it in him to send me to jail. If he tries, I'll threaten him with his secret. **I** have power over **him** for a change. I understand the game now. I understand why Bruce and my father work so hard, sacrifice everything else, for power. Power is the only thing in this city that matters. Only power can buy happiness, and if it doesn't, it can still buy some satisfying placebos._

They got out of the car near the docks. Bobby followed Roman over the old wooden planks, trying not to pay attention to the reek of dirty seawater and fish. The air was colder here, a chill that soaked into your bones. The horizon over the ocean was gray, shades of pewter and silver rippling over each other.

Oswald Cobblepot came striding out from one of the warehouses, several large thugs in tow. He was a short man nearing middle age, dark-haired, a bit stout. His eyes were blue, cold and shrewd, and his nose was thin, long, pointed. In his fine black three-piece suit, walking in a tottering manner due to a limp, he looked every bit like his namesake. In fact, the head of his umbrella's handle was a silver penguin.

“Well, well, if it isn't the new Roman,” Oswald observed. “And what's this? You've brought company.”

“This is—”

“We've met,” Oswald interrupted, striding up to Bobby, his umbrella tapping on the wooden planks as a blind man's cane might. “Robert Halloran, my favorite customer. You were one of the first to get your fix from me, weren't you?”

“You were the only one whose supply hadn't dried up,” Bobby said, meeting the man's eyes evenly. Bobby was not very tall, but the Penguin was a few inches shorter than he was still. “Customers like me don't wait in lines.”

“No, they don't,” Oswald said. He looked at Roman. “You know what else customers like Robert here don't do? They don't keep their fucking shit together when they need a fix! Why'd you bring a junkie here? Did you tell him? About all our plans for your club, eh?”

For the first time, Roman looked uncertain. He scratched the back of his hairless head.

“Well, I didn't think … I mean, he was bound to find out, eventually.”

“It's my club,” Bobby interjected angrily. “I'm the majority owner. It's my money. My customers. You might think I'm just some rich junkie asshole, but I'm a Halloran. I'm managing one of the largest weapons and technology companies in the world. You think I can't manage one little dirty nightclub?”

“Well, there's another point, young Robert,” Oswald said, turning back to him. “You have HalloTech. Why do you _want_ a dirty little nightclub?”

“HalloTech is my father's company,” Bobby said. “When he's dead, I'll do what I can, I'll oversee all the yes-men and the no-men and all of them, but it will _always be_ my father's company. I only have as much power as I can annoy out of them. But this is a shot at real power. This is a step into the heart of Gotham.”

“More of a stab than a step,” Oswald said. He looked Bobby up and down. “You're not as moronic as I expected, _Mr. Halloran_.”

Oswald suddenly pointed his umbrella's tip directly at Bobby's small nose.

“But do you understand that it's _my_ power?” he asked. His Cockney accent roughened his words more as his temper rose. “Can you accept that, lad? Or do you intend to fuck me the way you've never been able to fuck your father?”

“I'm not out to fuck anyone,” Bobby shot back. He reigned in his temper, sighing and slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “I don't want to run the streets, no more than I want to run HalloTech. All I want is a little power, enough so that people don't look at me and laugh into their drinks. I have three years until I'm thirty, and when I get there I don't want to be a joke. I'm cute now, but I'll be a loser at thirty.”

Oswald laughed at that.

“At least you know that much. It takes a lot for a man born with your gifts to be honest with himself,” he said, lowering the umbrella. “Tell you what, Robert. Lay off the drugs. Run the club, front it, like Roman told me you'd do. Keep your hands clean. We'll need someone with clean hands in all this. If you can do those things and prove yourself loyal, well, your future might be bright. I could use a friendship with the heir of HalloTech. You might not have power there now, but if you're not a joke at thirty, you will have it, trust me.”

“Do you think … ”

Oswald looked up at him. He tapped Bobby's shoulder with the umbrella.

“Go on. Speak up,” he ordered. “If you're going to be a part of this organization, then be a part of it. Only thing I hate more'n a Batman is a shrinking violet.”

“I want to be as respected as Bruce Wayne,” Bobby said, lifting his chin. “HalloTech is already more influential than Wayne Enterprises because of our military contracts. If I can earn respect on the streets, the company will fall in line. Will a … friendship … with you bring me that respect?”

“If you're equally beneficial, and _loyal_ , to me, then yes, it will.”

“Will I be more powerful than Bruce Wayne, do you think?”

“Ah, so that's it,” Oswald said. “Young love. I heard that Wayne spurned you. Heh heh heh. Revenge, is it? Look, lad, this isn't a game. I can get you your revenge, but it won't come free, or cheap.”

“I've already put a lot of money—”

“I'm not talking about money,” Oswald said impatiently. “Can you keep your mouth shut if you're arrested? If you have to, can you kill someone?”

“I have Roman for that.”

Cobblepot laughed a strange, flat laugh. It sounded like the noises penguins made, a cross between a honk and a quack. Bobby wondered at how some people turned out exactly like a certain breed of animal—or bird, as this case would have it.

“Delegation, I like it,” Cobblepot said. “Well, Robert, these things can never be guessed at. You say you're up for it, so I'll take you as a man of your word. Everything else will be tested. We'll see where it goes.”

“Do we have a deal?”

Cobblepot extended his hand and Bobby took it. They shook.

“It's a deal, lad,” Oswald said. He turned to Roman and took his hand. “Roman.”

“Glad to being doing business with you, Mr. Cobblepot,” Roman said.

“Get me some of those fish down the pier, boys,” Oswald instructed two of his goons. He gestured for Roman and Bobby to walk with him, and took a deep breath of the pungent air. “Invigorating, isn't it? When I was a lad in London, I used to go down to the docks and stare out at the ocean. I'd dream of Gotham City. I can understand a bit where you're coming from, young Robert. I always wanted to best Wayne, too.”

“You did?” Bobby asked in surprise. “Why?”

“No one would know it now, but my family owned a thriving business once,” Oswald said. “Before I was born, the Cobblepots had one of the top shipping companies in London. I was three years old when Wayne Enterprises decided to expand into the United Kingdom. My father sold out, not that he had much choice in the matter. Bloody Waynes, going 'round the world like gods, swallowing everything up. Dunno what happened to dad, he took most of the money and was gone. Mum and I had enough to live comfortably shabby … but … well … ”

Bobby looked down at the odd little man. For the first time, he saw a flicker of humanity in Oswald Cobblepot. His doughy face looked years younger as the insecurity shadowed it, and his eyes swept to the ground for a second. His chin lifted then, and his eyes gleamed with anger, cold as icebergs. There was still a broken edge in them, but it was more mad than sorrowful now.

“Power, as you said, Robert,” Oswald told Bobby. “One can have all the money in the world, but he's bankrupt as a man if he doesn't have power. I say 'man', but it's true of men and women both. So many people whine on and on about it: why they don't have love, why they don't have respect, why they don't succeed. It's because they don't have power. Power over another person is love. Power over other people earns respect. Power over one's career earns money. You hit it spot on, Robert. Power is all that matters in this world.”

Bobby was aware of Roman's tenseness. He had only expected to tag alone with him, but now Oswald Cobblepot was paying him more attention than he was Roman. It was intoxicating, being treated as the more important party for once. For the first time in his life, Bobby was very proud to be a Halloran.

“I've named the club,” Bobby said. Let Roman Sionis stew. He was enjoying this attention more than he had enjoyed anything since leaving Bruce. “We're going to call it The Black Glove.”

“Elegantly suggestive,” Oswald said. “I like it.”

“You don't think it's too kinky?” Roman broke in, giving Bobby a dark look. “Sounds like one of your fetishes, Bobby.”

Bobby bristled inwardly, and he could feel his face reddening. What would Bruce do? He thought that Bruce would lie, as he did so well. He decided to take a different route.

“You think I'm the only one in Gotham with a fetish?” Bobby said coolly. “I think the suggestion of kink will be a boon to the club. Especially with Mr. Cobblepot providing, well, _open-minded_ adult entertainers.”

“There's a smart lad,” Oswald smiled. He tapped the umbrella on the dock boards twice in affirmation. “So, what are you into, young Robert? Fancy a whacking now and then? You look the type.”

“I do,” Bobby said, affecting casualness. He wondered what it was about him that made people see him as such a submissive bitch. _I'll have to change that,_ Bobby thought uneasily. _I'll have to at least learn how to hide my … preferences._

“I know a man you might care to meet,” Oswald informed him. “Very eager to see the club open up. He's a psychiatrist, rather a good one, not that I would know personally; I don't go in for that rubbish. He's into that kind of stuff, a few of my boy whores have informed me. I'll introduce you two sometime.”

“All right,” Bobby said, though he was not keen to meet a man that made use of gigolos.

The thugs returned, bringing Oswald his fish. They had some large ones wrapped up, which Cobblepot inspected and nodded in approval of. There were a few that were lightly fried, wrapped in a newspaper, which they handed to him. The man began to gobble them up whole as they went on walking.

“I knew a man once,” Cobblepot said. He was in a rare talkative mood. “Homeless man, on the docks, back in London. I used to run down there when the other lads were havin' a go at me. I'd run down there, they'd run after me, calling me, 'penguin, penguin'. Rough me up a bit. The homeless man always had these little fish, I s'pose he got enough begging to buy a few every day. Never saw him eat anything else. Anyway, I'd come back around when the other lads had gone, and this man, perfect stranger, he'd tell me, 'Well, a penguin needs a fish'. Stupid thing to say, that. I always hated when anyone called me a penguin. I wanted to murder the lads with my bare hands every time they did it. But when this homeless half-idiot said that, I didn't mind. I ate those fish with him. Been eatin' the like ever since. Do you two know why?”

Roman shrugged, obviously not very interested. Bobby thought it might have been because the homeless man had been kind to him, but he knew better than to express this sentimental opinion.

“It's because that bum did something that I was incapable of at the time,” Oswald said. “He took away the power that nickname had over me. By using it so carelessly, he made it meaningless, almost affectionate. It took me years and years to do that simple little thing.”

“Is that why you let yourself be called the 'Penguin' now?” Bobby asked.

“Right you are, that's why,” Oswald said. “There's no power in the joke now. It won't even be a joke much longer: people are going to fear 'the Penguin'. Power, my friends. All you need to know is how to take power. If you're clever enough, all else will fall in place.”

They spoke a while longer, and then the Penguin excused himself.

“You're such a little shit, Bobby,” Roman told him when they were alone. “Who the hell do you think you are? This is _my_ operation. You'd still be doped up at the club if I hadn't let you in on this.”

“Relax, Roman, we're all in on it together,” Bobby said. “If we can even get The Black Glove off the ground, there will be plenty of money and power to go around. Let's just concentrate on working everything out.”

“Fine.” Roman stopped in front of his car, barring the door with an arm. “But you get your own ride. I'm sick of being used by you.”

He got in and shut the door. Bobby drew a breath and let it out slowly.

“Asshole,” he muttered.

Bobby dialed for a taxi service and waited on the street. Let Roman disrespect him. He was used to being kicked around enough that he could tolerate it a while longer. His day would come, he knew that now. The world had changed, and he had finally gotten a foothold on the power struggles going on. This was his one chance at real power, and he did not intend to let it slip by.

Bobby went to Gotham General Hospital, where his father was recovering from chemotherapy. The General was in a private room on one of the top floors, hooked into what looked like a dozen different machines. The treatments had wasted the man, and dropped a decade's worth of age upon him. His tall frame had lost a third of his prior body weight, and new lines had cracked the skin around his eyes and mouth, dashing away the last traces of youth from the man. His hair had gone white, and now it was simply gone. Bobby sat on a chair next to the bed, gently touching his father's papery, pale hand.

“Robert,” Walter Halloran said hoarsely. He opened his brown eyes, large and round just like his son's. “Get me some water, would you, son?”

Bobby obliged. After he sipped some, Walter inquired about HalloTech. They spent some time discussing the company, which Bobby was finally comfortable overseeing.

“I also think that it's time to leave the drugs, and most of the alcohol,” Bobby said. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I'm sick of it, and I won't be able to do the things that I want to if I'm never sober. I don't have time to go to rehab, but this hospital has a program. 'Walking rehab', they call it. I was thinking of getting on it.”

“I'm proud of you, Robert,” Walter said with a feeble smile. “I thought that your break-up with Bruce Wayne would ruin you, but you've turned everything around. I've never seen you so strong.”

“I don't know if I'd call it strength,” Bobby murmured. “To be honest, I've just been trying to prove something. Bruce made me so angry.”

Walter's eyes flickered with alertness. He sat himself up in the bed, though the effort made him pale even more. He looked his son in the eye.

“Did Bruce hurt you, Robert?” he asked. “I'll kill him if he did.”

“Really?” Bobby said. “I would have thought you'd shake his hand. I always got the feeling that you hoped Bruce would knock some sense into me.”

“Robert, you're my son, I don't want anyone to hurt you,” Walter said. “You spent so much of your childhood obsessed with Bruce Wayne that I thought he might make you happy. If he didn't, then it's his loss. You do know that I only want you to be happy, don't you?”

“I never knew what you wanted from me, or for me,” Bobby said quietly. “All I ever thought was that I disappointed you.”

“There's a difference between being disappointed by someone and being disappointed _for_ them,” Walter said. “I've provided you with everything I possibly can, but that isn't going to be enough soon. This day was always going to come, and I just wanted you to be prepared for it.”

“What do you mean, 'this day'?” Bobby asked, his hand cold. He gripped his father's hand more tightly, but his skin was also clammy. “What are you talking about? The chemo.”

“Destroyed me, son,” Walter said gently. “You're observant, even though I know you only see what you choose to. Well, look at me, Robert. Take a good look.”

Bobby chewed his bottom lip as he surveyed his father. He _had_ noticed, the moment he had come into the room. The smell in the air was different, a kind of decay that he had never smelled before yet recognized as death. Where his father's eyes should be white, they were yellow, and his skin was almost the same color.

“Don't do that,” Walter said, not unkindly. He touched his son's mouth to stop him chewing it. “Hey. Come on. Keep your chin up, and please don't cry.”

“Sign of weakness, right?”

“No.” Walter swallowed, his throat audibly scratchy. “I just don't want to start crying too.”

Bobby smiled, sniffing. He discreetly pinched tears from his eyes, and met his father's gaze steadily.

“Dad—”

“Don't worry, I'm not giving up the fight that easy,” Walter said. He sat up straighter in the bed again. “The doctors have, but they're men that haven't seen how easily the odds can turn in a battle. I have. I'm going to be leaving this foxhole for HalloTech's Medical Research Department.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Speak of the devil,” Walter said. “Come in, doc!”

A man in a white lab coat came into the room. He was tall, blond, and middle-aged. He was nondescript in features, save for a broad, intelligent forehead and cool blue eyes behind his glasses. He came up to the two men, and Bobby stood.

“This is my son, Robert,” Walter told the doctor.

“Hello, nice to meet you, Robert,” the doctor said, shaking Bobby's hand. “My name is Victor Fries. I'm going to be treating your father with an experimental procedure.”

“Experimental?” Bobby asked, suspicious. “How experimental?”

“I have successfully utilized this treatment before, Mr. Halloran.”

“On rats?”

“On … my wife.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows. He sat down on the edge of the hospital bed, beside his father.

“I think you should tell me about this procedure, Doctor Fries,” Bobby said, pronouncing the name “Freese”, as the doctor had.

“As you've most likely been made aware, your father's liver is failing,” Dr. Fries explained. “Obviously, he is on a list for a donor organ, but given the damage done by chemotherapy and his age, he will not be very high on the list. Even finding an organ using _nontraditional_ means would take time that your father does not have. He is also far too weakened for a transplant surgery.”

Bobby nodded. He could not speak. The room was spinning, and he was choking on the pungent aroma of sickness. The cocaine made his heart beat abnormally fast, and the bruises on his backside throbbed with every pulse.

“My area of study is cryogenics,” Dr. Fries explained. “My wife, Nora, fell ill ten years ago. I left my job teaching cryogenics to work with HalloTech, developing a procedure to safely preserve human life until a treatment becomes available. There is as yet no cure for my wife's condition, but I am confident that your father can be kept alive until there is a liver available for transplant. There are also treatments to be made during cryogenic freeze that will strengthen his body for the surgery.”

“Christ,” Bobby murmured. He looked down at his father, then back at Dr. Fries. “Cold storage? I've never heard of anyone coming back from that safely.”

“I've done accelerated research,” Dr. Fries said. “Private research. My wife was brought back successfully, several times. I haven't lost a trial subject since.”

“Human trial subjects?”

“No,” Dr. Fries said hesitantly. “Other than Nora, there have been no further human tests. It is not ready to implement in a full capacity yet.”

“You mean it's radical, _and_ illegal,” Bobby said. “This is a last-ditch effort. You're going to keep my father half-dead in a freezer, hoping that a liver becomes available _and_ that you can revive him for the transplant.”

“Better half-dead than full-dead,” Walter said. “Listen, Robert, I have considered all my options. I've read everything there is concerning Dr. Fries's research. It is a risk, and Dr. Fries has explained that risk to me. But it's still the best option available to me. It's the only realistic option I can find. The rest has all been holistic BS and experimental drugs no better than rat poison. At least there is some dignity in this.”

“Being frozen and defrosted like something meant for the microwave?”

Dr. Fries looked at Bobby with something akin to horror. Walter only laughed.

“Don't mind my son, he's got a mouth on him,” Walter said. “Robert, I understand how you feel. I'm not happy about this. I'm sick to death of dying. That's why I'd like to take a pause, see if things look better in a few months.”

“Is that how long you'd be … um, stored?” Bobby asked. “For a few months?”

“I've been told that someone should be able to find me a spare liver in four months or less,” Walter said. “And if the rest strengthens my body, I'll have a chance.”

“It will,” Dr. Fries spoke up again. “The radiation will seep away in the cold. It can be restorative, the cold. Not many people understand or accept its benefits.”

“What about damage?” Bobby asked. “Frostbite, all that?”

“I've perfected a solution that will keep the body from decay,” Victor Fries assured him. “As I've said, my wife Nora has been in cold storage for a decade. I think that you should see for yourself.”

Victor pulled up a video on his phone. He handed it to Bobby. Bobby squinted at the video as it played. The date stamp was in the corner, claiming it had been taken that month. Bobby recognized the laboratory in the video as being one of the floors at HalloTech. There was unfamiliar equipment in the room, and Bobby could see Fries's breaths misting the air in the corner of the video. The view swept the room, and then centered on a large tank in the back of the room. Metal plates slid back from it, and the view closed in tighter.

Bobby stifled the curse that rose to his lips. A woman floated in the tank, her blond hair floating hauntingly in the frigid blue solution around her. Her skin must have been white, but it looked pale blue in the tank, and her lips looked painted dark navy. She wore a skintight white suit of some sort, clinging liquidly to the toned curves of her lithe body. Her eyes were shut as if in a peaceful slumber. She was very beautiful, not exactly the kind of woman Bobby would have expected to be married to unassuming Victor Fries.

“My wife Nora,” Dr. Fries said, his voice filled with love. “She has been in cold storage for ten years. As you can see, she is perfectly preserved. You might see her at any time at my laboratory in HalloTech.”

Bobby handed him back the phone. He felt chilled just thinking about it.

“My own beloved wife is dependent upon my work,” Dr. Fries said. He put a hand on Bobby's shoulder. “I know how it is to feel helpless in the face of illness. I hope to one day eliminate that fear. I hope to give people a cold repose to await recovery in.”

“You've already decided on this?” Bobby asked his father. “You didn't even ask me? You just figured you'd do it?”

“I'm telling you now, son,” Walter said patiently. “This has all happened very quickly. I don't have the time to toss ideas around, not if I'm going to survive this.”

“I'm glad you want to survive, dad,” Bobby said. “I'm not ready to lose you. I just wish you had told me something sooner. When do you plan to undergo this procedure?”

“Your father is nearly done with the preparation treatments,” Victor Fries spoke up. “He will be moved to HalloTech soon, and put to cold sleep by mid-February.”

“Within a couple weeks,” Bobby marveled. “Dad, you're really going to do this?”

“I'll be dead by spring if I don't do something,” Walter said in his blunt way. “It's a chance, Robert. Sometimes that's all you get in life.”

“I want to go to HalloTech and see about all this,” Bobby said. “I trust your judgment, dad, but I just need to see it for myself. It's all pretty sci-fi.”

“You're welcome to tour my lab,” Dr. Fries said. “Do you wish to go now?”

“I might as well,” Bobby said. “Nothing else to do. Dad, are you going to be all right?”

“No, but I'll be resting,” Walter said. He reached up to squeeze his son's shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Robert.”

“You too, dad.”


	3. From The Ashes

Carmine “The Roman” Falcone and his daughter, Sofia “Gigante” Falcone, went to visit the grave of Alberto Falcone that evening. After Sofia had had the Dent family assassinated by fire, she and her father had thought the Holiday murders to be done with. The shock of losing Alberto on New Year's Eve night had been devastating.

“Explain to me how this has happened, Sofia,” Carmine said, his voice soft and terrible. “Explain to me why my only son now lies dead in the ground.”

“I don't know, papa,” Sofia murmured, hanging her head.

Alberto had been acting very strangely before he died. After the Dent family was murdered, he had flown into an uncharacteristic rage. Though he knew his father wished to keep him out of the family business, he had nonetheless been infuriated that no one had consulted him about murdering the Dents. In the following weeks, Alberto had become very depressed and quiet. On New Year's Eve night, he had been anxious and distracted. He had apologized to them all for his behavior then, but there had been an insincere bite to the apologies.

“ _I'm sorry,”_ Alberto had said to Sofia that night, _“that I was never as good a son to papa as you've been.”_

Sofa still felt bile rise in her throat when she recalled those words. She was a huge woman, much taller than her father and stronger than any man, but she was still a woman. She did not care about the way the city saw her, but to think that her own brother thought of her that way was disappointing.

“You assured me that one of the Dents was the Holiday killer,” Carmine said. “When they fell to tragedy, we were certain this Holiday nonsense was over. _You_ were certain.”

“I was,” Sofia admitted, “and I was wrong. I will find this Holiday killer, papa, I swear it on my brother's grave. And what about the Dents, anyway? What happened to them was no tragedy. Whoever did it did us a favor.”

Before Carmine could say anything in response, a third voice joined them.

“Yes, it was … but not a random one.”

Sofia whirled around, her immense figure moving surprisingly fast. She went to draw her gun, but something hit her hand hard. She barked out a yelp, curling both hands into fists. Darkness shifted against the twilight, and a fist took her in the stomach hard. She grunted, swinging at the shadow. She was good, but Batman was better. After a few exchanges, a punch to the head turned Sofia's world black.

“You come to me at my son's grave!” Carmine Falcone exclaimed furiously. “You come here like this, and you attack my _daughter_?”

 _Oh, so now she's daddy's little girl?_ Batman thought dryly, glancing at Sofia's fallen, massive form. He took Falcone by the front of his coat and slammed him against the wall of the Falcone tomb. Carmine struggled, glaring murder at Batman.

“You had the Dent family murdered,” Batman growled at the man. He slammed him again, harder. “Didn't you?”

“I had _nothing_ to do with that misfortune,” Carmine said. “Do you think I am the kind of man that would hire a freak like the Firefly?”

“Then who did?”

“Why don't you ask the freak himself?” Carmine spat. “His name is Lynns, Garfield Lynns. You find him, you ask him who gave the order.”

“I will.”

Batman threw the Roman to the ground. By the time Carmine got to his feet, he was gone. The man cursed under his breath, brushing snow and dirt off his ten thousand dollar suit. Sofia came to groggily, standing.

“What happened?”

“What happened was I gave him the Firefly,” Carmine said calmly. “Let one freak kill the other. What do I care?”

“But Sal—Maroni, he—”

“If the Bat gets a name out of Lynns and it happens to be Salvatore Maroni, all the better,” Falcone said. “If neither Harvey Dent nor his wife were behind the Holiday murders, it must be Maroni.”

“Maroni has lost men, too.”

“A few here and there, well worth it to strike at me blamelessly,” Falcone reasoned. “But that is done. This ends now, and it is far too late at that. If the Bat or the Devil don't take him first, I am finished with Sal Maroni. Let him try to touch us again. Just let him try.”

Sofia's gut tightened. She could see from her father's eyes that he meant to be done with her lover, and that there was little she could do about it. She would need to tread very carefully if she wanted to save Sal, and find the real Holiday quick.

 _If Batman doesn't get him first,_ Sofa thought grimly as she walked with her father back to their car. _Damn them all, these freaks! Business was smooth, simple. All we had to worry about was being the strongest. Now …_

“A war won't be good for anyone,” Sofia said. “Maroni won't like that we lay the Dent murder at his door.”

“ _I_ did not like that you laid the task at his door, either, if that is what you did, but it turned out to be fortuitous,” Falcone said. “While Salvatore is busy dealing with the Bat, we will hit him hard enough to break him. Once we have his territory and power, we will deal with all these upstarts, like the Penguin.”

“I was there when Sal gave the order to Lynns,” Sofia said. “He might implicate us anyway.”

“He will not.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he owes me a favor.”

“What?” Sofia stared at her father. “Why? How? When did you help him? I've been looking for Lynns since the idiot went overboard with the Dent bombing. You _found_ him?”

“I did,” Falcone said simply. “He was scared, worried about the Batman, worried that Maroni would take him out to keep his silence. I gave him a little present. He will not mention you. He will not mention _us_.”

They got into the car, Sofia shaking her head in wonder. She felt betrayed that her father had taken all this action without her, but perhaps it was for the best. It was a shame that Sal would be framed, but he was a big boy, he could take care of himself. Family came first, it always had and it always would. There was nothing more important than family, not even love.

* * *

Batman hunted for Garfield Lynns when darkness fell. He found the abandoned warehouse where he was holed up. The warehouse had been converted to a mob safe house inside, and boasted a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and even a living area with a television and sound system. Batman narrowed his eyes and hid in the shadows of the bare rafters and catwalks above. Lynns returned from wherever he had gone, a plastic bag of groceries in hand. He was a man of medium height, thin, his hair very pale blond. It was always surreal to see the ordinariness of murderers; it was difficult to reconcile the capacity for evil with simple human beings. One always expected these people to be something more, or less, than human.

Batman swooped down from above, landing hard in front of Lynns. The man's blue eyes widened, and he dropped the bag of groceries. He took a step backward, and then turned on the soles of his red canvas and rubber sneakers to run. He looked more like a startled rabbit than a hardened killer. Batman lunged after him.

Lynns was damnably fast, and he threw every piece of furniture he passed back at Batman. He turned out of the redecorated area into a metal stairwell. Batman followed as he rattled down the stairs, but he lost sight of the man at the bottom. There was a maze of cold, rusting boilers and machinery in the basement, and Batman heard water dripping and the rustling of rats.

“Give it up,” Batman called, walking slowly and quietly. “It will go _easier_ if you do.”

Lynns did not reply. Batman followed the echoes of human rustling for a while, keeping an eye out. He finally thought he had Lynns cornered, and spun around a turn to confront him.

Garfield Lynns had put on a suit of some sort; it was dark red and black, lined with gold, with wing-like protrusions in the back. Bruce Wayne recognized it immediately as a prototype firefighter suit that Wayne Enterprises had developed some years back—the “Firefly” model. Lynns raised what was supposed to be the hose, and Batman saw that it had been modified in some way.

“Trust me,” Lynns said, his voice distorted into an insect-like buzz through the suit's speaker, “ _this_ is easier.”

The hose sprayed a blast of intense flames. Batman leaped back, using his fire resistant cape to deflect as much of the heat as possible. It was not something he did often, but this time Batman knew there was no choice but to run. The remnants of oil in the boilers caused them to blow, and the entire basement was bathed in flames. Batman thought Lynns might have blown himself up, but there was nothing to do for the man now.

Suddenly, the Firefly came zooming through the fire towards him. He grabbed Batman by the cloak and flew up the stairwell, the suit's wings unfolded. Batman grunted, trying to pry his hands off, but the suit gave the Firefly enhanced strength. He was carried back up to the main floor of the warehouse, and thrown to the floor. The Firefly hovered above him.

“Did I singe your wings, Batman?” the Firefly asked. He raised the hose-turned-blowtorch. “Everything burns.”

Batman rolled away, though he could feel the flames licking at him. His own suit was fire resistant, but it had points he knew might be less fireproof than others. He pressed the button to bring the other half of his mask up, so the smoky air would be filtered and the bottom of his face would not burn. The Firefly was blasting fire at him, zooming around in the air like the suit's namesake.

Batman took out his grappling hook gun and shot it at the Firefly. It wrapped around an ankle and he pulled the man out of the air with a mighty tug. Fire went flying everywhere as Lynns whirled to the ground. The old wood beams above and the new furniture below all went up in flames. The Firefly hit the floor hard, and Batman stepped on his arm to stop the blowtorch. The Firefly refused to relinquish his grip on the blowtorch, letting the flames burn against the concrete floor. Fortunately, Bruce knew how the Wayne Enterprises prototype was put together. He removed the mask and punched Lynns full across the face. Blood exploded from the man's thin nose, and he cried out. Batman pretended not to hear him.

A short, painful time later, Garfield Lynns was out of the suit and tied up on the floor. His head was bowed, fair hair damp with sweat and hanging over his swollen, bruised, bloodied face. He was trembling, tears and snot running down his face, but still he watched the flames whirling around them with fascination.

“Everything burns,” Garfield murmured. “Everything burns, everything burns.”

Batman grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the nearest wall. Garfield flinched and moaned in pain. His arms were tied behind his back, but his legs kicked out in protest.

“Who gave the order to kill the Dents?” Batman asked. He shook the man. “WHO GAVE THE ORDER?”

“No, no, no!” Garfield exclaimed. “No, I won't tell you! They'll _burn_ me if I tell you! I won't, I won't, I won't!”

Batman punched him in the stomach. Garfield gasped in pain, trying to double over.

“I can't!” he wailed. “I can't, I can't! I promised! I won't tell you! You can k-kill me. I won't tell you. I can't.”

Batman decided that he would have to get the truth from Garfield Lynns in a subtler way. He dragged him outside the burning warehouse and threw him to the ground outside. Through the comm in his mask, he told Alfred to send the police to the warehouse. He began to walk away, but Lynns spoke then.

“Isn't it beautiful?” Lynns asked, sounding like a man in a trance. His blue eyes were orange with the light of the flames. “Don't you see how beautiful it is?”

Batman turned back to him. Incredibly, Lynns smiled. The expression made him look younger, and his thin, pale features became almost handsome for the vibrancy of it. Batman noted that the man was mentally ill. He did not regret beating him.

“Was it beautiful when you killed Gilda Dent?” Batman asked, crouching down before the man. He took him by the hair and pulled his head back. “When you let an innocent woman burn to ash in her own home?”

“She didn't burn,” Lynns said sullenly. “She blew up. It was a split second, instantaneous death! She was … She didn't feel anything. She was lucky.”

Batman slammed the man's face directly into the concrete. Lynns did not speak again.

* * *

After being patched up at the hospital, Garfield Lynns was jailed at the Gotham City Police Department. His entire body hurt and the post-adrenaline crash made his chest feel heavy. He tried to hold the image of the burning warehouse in his mind, but it hardly cheered him. He wondered what would happen to his suit. He hoped that he could find it again, and fly through the night shooting fire. He doubted the gods had ever had so much pleasure.

The jail cell was empty save for another man. He was dog-faced, bored, and sat up from the bench he was lying on when Lynns was brought in. Garfield was too exhausted to worry about being imprisoned. He sank onto the second bench and rested an arm over his eyes.

“What did they get you for?” asked the man.

“Fire,” Garfield said wearily. “Always fire. I'm the Firefly.”

“Seriously?” the ugly man asked eagerly. “You're _the_ Firefly? The guy that blew up the District Attorney?”

Garfield took the arm from his eyes. With effort, he sat up, his body aching. He had never thought about what anyone thought of him, aside from not wanting to run afoul of the mob families. It was novel to see admiration in the man's eyes.

“Yeah, that's me,” Garfield said. “It was a big one—my biggest bomb ever. It was like Christmas.”

“Wow,” the man said. “That's something. That is really something. Hey, can I shake your hand?”

They shook.

“You didn't like Harvey Dent?” Garfield asked. “Did you?”

“No one liked Dent,” the man scowled. “He was a stupid weak man with stupid overblown ideals. Good riddance.”

“I was only doing my job,” Garfield said modestly.

“Yeah, but you did it well,” the guy said. “How much does it cost to build a bomb like that? They said the neighborhood was lit up all night!”

“Oh, it's expensive,” Garfield said. “But Mr. Maroni takes care of the money.”

“Wow, you work for Maroni?” the man whistled. “You're big time!”

“I guess,” Garfield said. “I hadn't thought about it.”

The man got to his feet, stretching. He yawned, scratched the back of his neck.

“So, what did Maroni have against our dearly departed DA?” he asked. “Dent was going after him pretty hard, right?”

“Actually, it wasn't Harvey Dent that was the target,” Lynns said. “Mr. Maroni was a little angry about … that. I was only supposed to kill the wife.”

“ … Gilda Dent? Why?”

Garfield did not notice the startled tone of the man's voice.

“Oh, he thought she was the Holiday killer,” he explained. It felt good to get it all out, to someone that would not judge him the way Batman had. “Given what happened to Alberto Falcone, I guess he was wrong about that, though.”

“Yeah, he was wrong. He was _very_ wrong.”

Garfield frowned up at the man. The grin of admiration had left his face, leaving his ugly features slack. Garfield felt a pang of fear. Something was not right here.

“What are you—Hey!”

The man pulled Garfield off the bench and threw him to the floor. He reached behind his head and pulled his face off. Garfield gaped stupidly as the mask tore at the edges, revealing the face of Harvey Dent.

“You were _all_ wrong,” Harvey said thickly. He kicked Garfield Lynns in the ribs. “You were wrong! You hear me? You were WRONG!”

In Gordon's office, Jim and Batman had been watching Harvey's disguised rendezvous with the Firefly. Batman turned to Jim.

“You better go get him before he kills Lynns,” Batman told the Commissioner.

When Jim brought Harvey up to the office, Harvey was still red-faced and breathing heavily. He shrugged Jim's hand off of his shoulder, ran both hands through his dark hair, over his face. He sat down in the chair in front of Jim's desk, one foot up on the trashcan.

“Did you get all of that?” Harvey asked. He unbuttoned his shirt and began plucking off the wires taped to his chest.

Jim played the recording of the Firefly's inadvertent confession.

“Why would he think Gilda was the Holiday killer?” Jim asked Harvey. “I could understand Maroni thinking that you're Holiday, but Gilda?”

Harvey stared at his feet, one fist thumping lightly on the arm of the chair. He thought of a clown's grin, the tremor of Gilda's voice, the nozzle of a .22 caliber pistol.

“ _Stop. I'll … I'll_ kill _you.”_

“I have no idea,” Harvey lied, looking Gordon in the eye as he did. “Everyone's been desperate to figure this Holiday bullshit out. They were reaching, I guess. Or he lied to Lynns. Who cares? We've got him. We've got Sal Maroni.”

Harvey slammed his fist down loudly on the arm of the chair. There was silence.

“Do you think it's time for Harvey Dent to return from the dead?” Harvey asked dryly. “I want to prosecute that son-of-a-bitch. Can't do that from beyond the grave, can I?”

“We'll announce tomorrow,” Gordon said. “You'll get your conviction, Harvey.”

Harvey nodded. He smiled bitterly, getting to his feet. He paced between Jim and Batman.

“It'll feel right, but it won't feel good,” Harvey said. “I've put my entire life into this. I've thought of nothing else since I was in school. And it just feels … empty. It doesn't feel like it means anything now.”

“Harvey—”

“The price was too high, Jim,” Harvey said. He kicked the bottom of the desk. “It was just too damn high!”

To Harvey's surprise, Batman put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at the masked man, eyes wide.

“It always is, Harvey,” Batman said, more gently than Harvey had ever heard him speak. “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you,” Harvey said awkwardly. He cleared his throat. “You're right, it is. That's why we're doing these things, I guess. To lower that goddamn price, even a little. I've been trying to hold onto that, but it … it keeps slipping away.”

“You should go home and rest, Harvey,” Jim said. “You still have the brownstone. Bruce and I had some new things brought in to replace … what you had moved to the house.”

“New things,” Harvey said. “All new things … except a new wife. Given Bruce's tendency to baby me, I'm surprised he _didn't_ replace Gilda by now. With himself.”

“Don't start on Bruce,” Jim said. “He's been very good to you.”

“I'm grateful, I am,” Harvey said. “That guy just treats me like I'm five sometimes, though.”

“It's his nature,” Jim told him. “Bruce had to grow up very quickly when his parents died. He had a guardian in his manservant Alfred Pennyworth, but he was still the only living Wayne.”

“You trying to make me feel sorry for him?” Harvey asked. “You hope to get us together? Forget it. He won't touch me. Thinks I'm too broken or something, I don't know.”

Jim stared at him.

“Harvey, don't tell me you already tried to—” Jim squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Harvey!”

“I was in a … mood, earlier,” Harvey said sheepishly. “Honestly, I was just glad he stopped me. I don't know what I was thinking.”

Harvey suddenly realized that Batman was silently hearing all of this. He blushed, turning to the strange crime-fighter.

“Uh, is there a reason you're still here?”

“No.”

Without another word, Batman exited through the window.

“Does he ever use the door?” Harvey asked.

“Not that I've ever seen,” Jim said. “Don't change the subject, Harvey.”

“Now _you're_ treating me like I'm five.”

“We're just trying to hold you together, Harvey,” Jim said. “We care about you. You don't make it easy, but we do. The whole city cares, Harvey. You saw how it broke Gotham to hear that you had been murdered.”

“Only I _wasn't_ murdered, my wife was,” Harvey said. He hesitated, then his eyes hardened. “Is that why you saved me, Jim? For the city? To pin me up as this great hope again? Is that why you didn't just let me burn in peace with Gilda?”

“What?” Jim asked in shock. “Are you telling me that I should have left you to _burn_ , Harvey? That you wanted to die?”

“Of course I did!” Harvey snapped. “My life is over, Jim! This, all of this is just time biding! I'm doin' this because I don't know what _else_ to do! My life, my future, my _heart_ is gone, Jim! I'm already dead! But you just put me back in this goddamn body! So tell me, Jim! Tell me it was for the city or for Bruce or because you have this weird father complex when it comes to me! Tell me any of that, but don't you dare tell me it was for me! I didn't want it! I didn't want this, Jim, any of it!”

Jim slapped him. The blow sounded like a gunshot in the sudden silence. Harvey clutched his face, and when he looked up at Jim, Gordon's hand instinctively went to his gun. The look in Harvey's stormy dark blue eyes spoke of murder.

“Well, you have it,” Gordon said harshly. “Do you think _any_ of us wanted this? This life, this city, this battle? Do you think _I_ wanted this life? I didn't! None of us did, probably not even Batman! But we have it, and it's the only goddamn life we have, so suck it up! Pull it together, Harvey!”

Harvey rubbed his cheek, and the anger faded from his eyes. He collapsed into the chair again. His hand moved from his reddened cheek to his temple. Jim sat on the desk in front of him, looking down at the man sympathetically. He hated to have hit Harvey, whose entire life had been filled to the brim with savage beatings, but his hand had acted on its own. Harvey's words had scared the hell out of Gordon.

“You don't want to die, Harvey,” Jim told him, praying to God that was true. “I know it feels like your life is over, but it isn't. You still have the DA's office. You still have your _life_. You're thirty-three, and you're still alive, Harvey. Please don't take that for granted.”

“How long have we known each other, Jim?” Harvey asked. He laughed hollowly. “You arrested my father when I was fourteen. Told me what scholarships to go after to get into college. When I testified against my father to get him in jail for a few months, you told me I'd make a hell of a prosecutor. I felt good about that, you know that? I was proud.”

Jim smiled. He could scarcely remember what it felt like to be young and hopeful. He would still give a kid advice today, but the years had dimmed his faith in the future considerably.

“Do you know what my father did to me for that?” Harvey asked, the warmth of nostalgia going cold. “When he got out? Do you know what he did to me, for that testimony that I was so proud of?”

Jim had an idea, but he said nothing.

“Dad flipped the coin—” Harvey stopped abruptly and reached into his pocket. He held up the double-sided Liberty coin, now scarred on one side. “This coin right here. He flipped it like he always did … heads, I get punished, tails I don't. Of course, it was heads, never could be anything _but_ heads. So dear old dad tied me to my bed with some old ties he had, wrists, ankles, tied me so tightly that my circulation was almost cut off. He gagged me, too. Dad was a smart guy, he had already had the police called for my screaming and he wasn't going to let that happen again. I had my mouth full of one of my own tee-shirts, spit and bile soaking it and choking me. I thought I wouldn't be able to breathe soon. But I guess I kept breathing somehow … I know I stayed conscious. I know because I can remember every single welt he laid on me that day. Eighty-two, Jim. I counted. Eighty-two lashes of that belt, the biggest, thickest one he owned. My entire back was bleeding and bruised, from my shoulders to the back of my knees. I didn't think it would end. I thought that I had always just been there, being whipped raw, and that I always would be there. I couldn't walk for a week. I just lay there, not eating, not able to sleep, hurting.”

“Harvey, I'm—”

“No, don't apologize to me one more time, Jim,” Harvey said wearily. “I used to hate you for a while. I wondered why you didn't adopt me. I wanted you to be my father. It passed quickly, of course. I knew the deal. I knew you had done everything that you could. That isn't the point of this. You know what the point is?”

“No, I don't,” Jim said. “There is no point, Harvey. It's just senseless cruelty and suffering.”

“Exactly,” Harvey said. “In a way, when I was lying there unable to move, I was relieved because of that very fact. I was free of everything, even thought. I couldn't think of anything but the pain. Everything was gone but the pain, and it was … agonizingly refreshing.”

“You told yourself that to cope,” Jim said. “No one wants to be abused like that. No one can appreciate pain like that.”

“But I did,” Harvey said. “You know the other time I felt that way? When I was lying in that burning shed. I knew Gilda was dead, felt it in my soul. All I had to do was lie there and burn. It would hurt, but I've lied through pain before. I was ready. I was relieved.”

“Harvey, don't talk like that,” Jim said sternly.

“Or what?” Harvey grinned. “You'll slap me again? It's a funny thing, Jim, but you can only beat someone so much before they go numb. Oh, your legs and your back and your ass never go numb, too many nerve endings, but you go numb inside. It's just a part of your life, and you take it. You suck it up, like you just told me to.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” Jim said. “You know that I didn't.”

“I'll take it however I want to,” Harvey said. He stood, grabbed his suit's jacket. “I'm not going to kill myself, Jim. I'll take down everyone that I said I was going to. I'll avenge my wife, for all the good it'll do anyone. I'll be the shining hope of Gotham City. I'll take it, Jim. I'm not lying down anymore, I'm not a kid … so I'll stand here, and I'll take all of it.”

“Harvey—”

Harvey was already slipping into his coat.

“Good night, Jim.”

* * *

“Rough night, sir?”

Bruce peeled off his sooty, singed suit once he was down in the Bat Cave. Alfred raised his eyebrows at the damage, taking the suit to the small repair station nearby. Bruce dressed in black silk pajamas, and put a robe over himself for the drafty chill of the cave.

“This arrived at the door earlier, sir. I had it scanned for toxins, explosives, electronics, and the like. It's safe.”

Alfred handed Bruce a small envelope. Bruce opened it, and pulled out a neatly flattened origami figure. There was writing all over it, apparently senseless. Bruce unfolded the sheet of paper and looked at both sides.

“This is a code,” Bruce said. “I can only think of one person who would send such a complicated message … and I think I know what the key is.”

Bruce sat down at his computer station and typed the code into the computer. He used 'Batman' as the key, and then a message became clear:

_'Ask and you shall know. Know and you shall seek. Seek and you shall find. Find and you shall desire. Desire and you shall own. Own and you shall keep.'_

“Poetic,” Bruce said cynically. “This is from Edward Nigma, the Riddler. He's going to make his move soon.”

“Are you ready for him, sir?”

“The suit is ready,” Bruce said. “I was thinking of asking Bobby for help.”

“Master Robert?” Alfred asked, startled. “Can the man be trusted? He's not been at his best these past weeks, and I'm sorry to say that his best is hardly reputable.”

“He knows that I'm Batman, and that isn't going to change,” Bruce said. “He hasn't done anything with the information. He hasn't threatened me. He doesn't want anything to do with me.”

“Shouldn't you let sleeping dogs lie, sir?”

“I care about Bobby,” Bruce said. “Last year, I watched Floyd Lawton destroy himself for his murderous career. I'm watching Harvey Dent fall apart. I can't lose Bobby, too.”

“Is he not already lost?”

“I don't know,” Bruce said. He typed a few keys on the computer keyboard. A street camera photo came onto the screen, showing Bobby Halloran and Roman Sionis speaking with Oswald “The Penguin” Cobblepot. “This meeting happened yesterday. Rumor has it that the Penguin is looking to expand his operations, and he'll need territory, property, fronts. I think Sionis intends to use his new club to front for Penguin, and now he's dragging Bobby into it. The Gotham criminal underground is no place for a boy like Robert.”

“He is no longer a boy, sir,” Alfred pointed out. “Master Robert is a man grown, a man that shall soon be the owner and CEO of HalloTech. He has always been volatile and reckless, but now he is growing into a dangerous man. Should you cross him, he may just tell your secret to the disreputable people that he is now surrounding himself with, Master Bruce.”

“I have to try to help him,” Bruce said. “He isn't a bad man, he's just confused. If he understands why I'm Batman, if he can see the good that I do, maybe he'll accept it. Even if he doesn't want me, I want him to understand.”

“You've never needed anyone's approval, sir.”

“I only need his trust,” Bruce said. “If he doesn't trust me, I won't be able to trust him, and that could make things hazardous for everyone involved.”

“You do have a point, sir,” Alfred admitted. “I wish you luck with Master Robert, then. I have a feeling that you'll need it.”

“I can't hope for any luck with anything, Alfred,” Bruce said. “I need to make this year better. I can't watch people I care about fall to darkness one by one.”

“Just remember that in any given year, you will not be able to save everyone, sir,” Alfred reminded him gently. “As you learned with Floyd Lawton, there is a time to let a person go.”

“I'll recognize that time when I see it,” Bruce said. “Painful as it is, I always do. I ran Floyd out, didn't it?”

“You did, sir.”

“I can be brooding,” Bruce said, using a word Bobby had called him once and smiling slightly, “but I'm not stupid.”


	4. The Mole In The Garden

[January 26, 2015]

The police came early for Salvatore Maroni. Police cars surrounded him on the street in front of his building when he left to work at his restaurant, and he was taken completely off guard. His men went for their guns, but he waved a hand to stand them down.

“No one needs to die today,” Sal said, almost cheerfully. He raised his hands and remained calm as Gordon roughly slammed him over the hood of a patrol car to pat him down and cuff him. Sal called to his personal bodyguard, “Call Sofia.”

Maroni was frog-marched into the Gotham Police Department as Harvey Dent gave his return-from-the-dead speech. The press went crazy taking pictures, as Harvey declared that justice would be done.

“That went well,” Jim said as he joined Bruce and Harvey inside the PD. “One down, one to go.”

“I won't count Maroni as down until he's in Blackgate Prison,” Harvey said. “Speaking of, where are the case files?”

“Luis probably has them,” Gordon said. He motioned for the men to follow him.

“Who?” Bruce inquired.

“Assistant District Attorney Luis Castell,” Gordon explained. “He's been acting as DA during Harvey's absence.”

“Luis is a good man,” Harvey said. “Shame I'm going to have to set his career back.”

“He'll be DA when it's his time,” Gordon said. “Right now, it's still _your_ time, Harvey.”

“Yeah,” Harvey said, more resigned than pleased. “I guess it is.”

They found Luis Castell in the small office beside Gordon's that the prosecutors used when they were working in the PD. He was a short man, well-dressed, handsome in a frowning, serious kind of way. He had obviously been watching the press conference on the computer, and he shot to his feet in alarm when Harvey announced himself.

“DA Dent!” Luis exclaimed, stepping around the desk. “I can't believe it! I mean, thank God. Thank God you're alive.”

Luis shook his hand vigorously and gave him a short half-hug. Harvey clapped him on the shoulder affectionately.

“Good news, bad news, Luis,” Harvey said. “Good news, I'm alive. Bad news, you're not the DA anymore.”

“I never was,” Luis said. “The people voted _you_ in, Mr. District Attorney.”

“So they did,” Harvey said. He motioned to Bruce. “You already know Jim, but you should probably meet Bruce Wayne. He helped me pull off this whole operation.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Luis greeted him, shaking his hand. He did a double-take at their hands, surprised by the strength of Bruce's grip. “Your, ah, your reputation precedes you.”

“I wish it wouldn't,” Bruce said lightly.

“Oh, no, I only meant that you've done a lot for the justice system in Gotham,” Luis said with an amiable smile. He spoke very rapidly, though his diction remained precisely clipped. “And you saved Jim's life at the Ball in Blue.”

 _Jim's life was never in danger,_ Bruce thought. He recalled the flash of a wolfish grin, laughing blue eyes. _Deadshot doesn't miss._

“I just thought to grab him as I crawled away,” Bruce said modestly. “There was nothing heroic about it.”

“And there was nothing heroic about the time you saved your boyfriend from that cyborg monstrosity at the Augment Arena?” Luis asked. He laughed at the surprise on Bruce's face. “I saw the footage online. For someone that isn't heroic, you certainly have a knack for saving people.”

“Only for being in the wrong places at the wrong times, I'm afraid,” Bruce said. He did not like the sharp scrutiny in Luis's light hazel eyes. “I don't even like the Augment Arenas. I hate what they stand for. It was my ex, that dragged me out there.”

“I wondered why you of all people would be at a place like that,” Luis said thoughtfully. “I've been trying to shut down the Arenas forever. Maybe you'll be able to now that you're back, DA Dent.”

“Maybe, but first thing is first,” Harvey said. “Do you have the Maroni files?”

“I left them in Jim's office, actually,” Luis said. “I'll go get them.”

“I didn't realize Luis was such a fan of yours, Bruce,” Harvey chuckled. “What's that look for? Thinking of asking the guy out? He's cute enough, and he's a moral crusader like you and Jim here.”

Bruce smiled, but he was not thinking of asking anything romantic of Luis. He was thinking of the handshake, how Luis's hand had felt in his own. _Small hands,_ he thought. _Delicate. He would probably be more comfortable using a small caliber … like a .22._

* * *

_Alive!_

The thought kept running through Luis's mind. Even as he fetched the case files and handed them off to Harvey Dent and chatted a little more with the three men, he could not stop his mind from repeating that train of thought. _Alive, alive, alive! Harvey Dent is alive!_

A part of Luis was glad. He was glad that Harvey had survived to spite the damn Falcone family. Harvey was a good man, he had not deserved any of what had befallen him since being elected District Attorney. It had been almost unbearable thinking that his life had been cut so brutally short.

Still, this was a complication, and Luis could not handle another complication. He could not be held at fault for Dent's survival, but it would drive the Falcone family to be out for blood. He shuddered at the thought.

Luis's fears came to fruition over lunch that day. He was halfway through a sandwich when a shadow fell over him. He looked up just in time to see Sofia Gigante taking the seat opposite his own. Even sitting, she was nearly double his size. Luis choked in alarm.

“What are you _doing_?” he hissed. He coughed a few more times, hiding his mouth behind a napkin until he could take a sip of water. “We can't be seen together. There are _people_ here!”

“I can see that, Luis,” Sofia said nonchalantly. She had a deep, cold voice that was reminiscent of her father's. She pronounced his name with the Spanish accent he had dropped over the years, 'loo-ees'. “Don't worry, my guys cleared out the press.”

Luis did not want to know how they had done such a thing, and did not ask. He frowned across the table at the enormous woman, who met his gaze evenly. The taste of turkey and mayonnaise in his mouth began to make him sick.

“Dent is alive,” Sofia said. “Why did I not know this?”

“Because _I_ didn't know it,” Luis said in a hushed voice. “It was between Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon. _No one_ knew! They're being careful. They've been suspecting a GCPD mole for a while now.”

“They have good reason,” Sofia said. “Isn't that right, Luis?”

Luis exhaled through his nose, looking away from her. Every time he dealt with the woman, his skin began to crawl. In this moment, he could have killed Sofia, her father, all of the goddamned so-called 'Roman Empire'.

“If Dent is alive, then he can still be Holiday,” Sofia said. “And he has Sal in jail. Do you think Sal is safe in jail right now, Luis?”

“I don't think Harvey is Holiday,” Luis said. “He looks like he just rolled out of the grave. I doubt he was even able to walk on New Year's Eve, let alone boat out to your father's yacht, board it, shoot your brother, and then boat back to shore. Besides, Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon were sheltering him. They wouldn't do that for Holiday, they're too moral.”

“Well, aren't you a clever man, Luis?” Sofia said cynically. “I don't suppose you've figured out who Holiday is?”

“Of course not!” Luis snapped. “No one has any idea. I just don't think it's Harvey Dent.”

“Dent is still a problem!” Sofia insisted, slamming her fist onto the table. “And I'm sick of him! You're going to help me with my problem, aren't you, Luis?”

Luis said nothing. A huge hand came across the table and grabbed him by the tie. Sofia pulled him closer over the table, bringing him only inches from her scowling face. _And to think I used to believe a brick wall was the worst view in this city,_ Luis thought.

“Yes,” Luis said. He was released and sat back in his chair, smoothing his expensive tie. “Do I have a choice?”

“There's always a choice,” Sofia said. “You have two choices. You can choose to help me, or you can choose to watch your family be shipped all the way back to Santa Prisca.”

“My parents have enemies on the island!” Luis said furiously. “They'll be sent to Peña Duro! What choice do I have?”

“I never said you had any _good_ choices,” Sofia said. “Just that you had choices.”

Luis was grinding his teeth furiously. Sofia was merely amused. The woman had grown up around all kinds of men, most of them as hard-boiled as her father; she was not impressed by male posturing.

“You said that Bruce Wayne was in on this plan?” Sofia said thoughtfully. “Why Wayne? What does he have to do with Harvey Dent?”

“The Wayne family has always put a lot of money into the justice system, and Bruce is a personal friend of both Jim Gordon and Harvey Dent,” Luis explained. He was rubbing the center of his forehead, trying to keep a headache from coming on. “My guess would be that Gordon needed Wayne's resources to hide Dent.”

“Wayne has been almost as much a problem as Dent lately,” Sofia said. “First, he sabotages my father's plan to get on the board of the Bank of Gotham, and now this? No more. No more problems. We deal with Wayne, and we deal with Dent, once and for all.”

“They're good men,” Luis said in anguish. “Please, Ms. Falcone, give me a little time. I'll misdirect them. I can—”

“You can shut your mouth and follow my orders,” Sofia said harshly. “Just do _that_ , Luis.”

“Fine,” Luis said tightly. “What are my orders, then?”

“Leave Dent to me for now,” Sofia said. “If you're right and Dent is not Holiday, then Sal is better off in jail. My father's planning to take care of him, too, and I can't dissuade him from that yet. I need time to find the real Holiday. I need time, so let it sit.”

“All right.”

Luis went to stand, but Sofia grabbed him by the arm and sat him down again. Luis tugged his jacket back into place impatiently.

“We're not done, Luis,” Sofia said. “Wayne. I need more information on Wayne. I need to find a way to get to him. You're gay, aren't you, Luis?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Luis seethed.

“I hear Wayne's gay, too. Rumors, about him and that Halloran brat,” Sofia said. She reached across the table and took Luis's face in her hand, her palm nearly covering it. She turned it this way and that, much as she had studied dolls as a child before their neck joints would inevitably snap. “Have you two met?”

“Yes.” Luis twisted his head out of her grasp and rubbed his chin and jaw. “You're not actually suggesting … ”

Sofia just looked at him.

“I agreed to give you information,” Luis said. “You've been blackmailing my family, so I agreed to do that much. And now you ask me to whore for you?”

“Relax, Luis,” Sofia said. “Do you really expect me to believe that you wouldn't like to have a shot at Bruce Wayne?”

“I'm not his type.”

“I think it's in your best interest to find out whether you are or not.”

Luis tapped his fingers on the table in rhythmic succession, staring at the woman. He was almost to the point of telling her where to go when he remembered his parents. The last time he had seen their faces was in a video sent to his phone: his mother and his father tied up in a plane hangar, ready to be illegally deported to the island they had fled so many years ago.

Sofia could see the pure rage in the man's eyes. It was an impressive amount of fury for such a small man, she thought. His golden hazel eyes were practically blazing. She had to admit, the emotion made the man rather attractive. Sofia had always liked a man with a temper; most women feared such men, but she had no reason to, and merely found the trait to be cute. Regrettably, a temper also made the difference between life and death. Luis was far too angry to be left alive once his usefulness expired.

“Is that all?” Luis asked. “Or do you have any other _orders_ for me?”

“That's it,” Sofia said. “For now.”

Luis stood, buttoned his jacket, put on his coat, and stormed out of the restaurant. The streets were cold, but he was warm with agitation. He loosened his tie as he strode through the crowded Gotham streets, filled with nothing but hatred.

* * *

By evening, Luis's temper had been subdued by his logic. He was no fool, and he knew that he had been used in too many meaningful plots for the Falcone family to leave him alive once they were done with him. Luis knew that the only thing awaiting his family and himself at the end of this was a bullet through the skull. If he was going to survive and save his family, he needed a way out.

Though she would not realize it until it was too late, Sofia had given Luis a road map to such an escape. Bruce Wayne was a very powerful man, and a close friend to law enforcement. As much as he hated the idea of seducing him, having Bruce Wayne in his corner might be enough to untangle him from the Falcone family's web. In any case, he really did not have a choice now, did he?

Luis went home to his brownstone in one of Gotham's re-gentrified neighborhoods. He thought of the neighborhood's past days, when he had been a boy: fire hydrants letting loose water as kids played in it, people calling and yelling and laughing up and down the street, junkies shooting up on the corners; the district had been a slum. By the time the poor had been driven out and the wealthy driven in, Luis had been one of the only residents that was well-off enough to stay. The system had been there for him then, when he was a skinny little boy with nothing but his intelligence to live on. He wished that life was so simple now.

At home, Luis stripped off his clothes. He had to dig around through the old boxes in his closet, but he eventually found his old, worn street clothes. He put on black jeans, a black hooded sweatshirt, and an old brown leather jacket. He looked in the mirror, and ruffled his expensive haircut until his black hair was suitably disheveled. The nervous energy his caffeine addiction caused gave him the edgy appearance of an addict: a decent disguise for the neighborhood he was heading for.

Luis took to the streets on foot. It was a long walk, but he was grateful for the time to clear his head. The air was cold, but the sky was clear and starry. Gotham's skyline was always beautiful on nights like this, even if the up-close view was streaked with blood, sweat, tears, and dog shit.

The bells on the door to the flower shop jangled as Luis went in. His nostrils filled with an herbal, earthy smell that reminded him of the naturalist shops of his youth, the _botanicas_. Plants filled the shelves, packed so tightly that the room resembled a garden. Fluorescent lights gave the impression of daylight, white and strong. Soft new age music was playing, filled with earthy drum rhythms, trilling flutes, and pan pipes. The air was moist and clear and green, much fresher than any corner of Robinson Park.

“Can I help you?”

Luis stopped short before the counter. The shop's owner, Pamela Isley, was petite enough that he stood taller than her, even when she was on heels. She was a curvaceous, beautiful redhead, and her eyes were as green as the plants surrounding her. She was sitting on the edge of the counter, one leg crossed delicately over the other. She wore glasses, a gardener's apron, gloves, denim shirt, and jeans, though the frumpy outfit could not disguise her beauty. Though he _was_ gay, as Sofia had so rudely brought up, even Luis could feel the pull of attraction to the woman, and pitied any straight man that had ever entered Pamela's domain.

“Oh, Mr. Prosecutor, I didn't recognize you without your lovely clothes,” Pamela purred. She slipped lithely down from the counter. “You're not looking well, I'm afraid.”

“You are,” Luis said. “I see that you've gotten out on early release?”

“Good behavior,” Pamela said. “The guards of Blackgate said that I was a model prisoner.”

“I'll bet they did.”

“Pity you've never experienced my charms,” Pamela said. She was circling Luis, tapping fingers on his shoulder, putting a hand briefly here and there on him. “I'm really not the bad, bad girl you spent so much of the taxpayers' money describing in trial.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

“So, how can I help you, Mr. Prosecutor?” Pamela asked, crossing her arms and thus lifting her ample bosom. “I doubt you've come to talk … or play.”

“I-I need something, Ms. Isley.”

“So _polite_ ,” Pamela cooed, one long fingernail played at Luis's cheek. “It must be something naughty.”

“I'll owe you.”

“So you will,” Pamela said with a smile. “And what is it that you need, Mr. Prosecutor?”

“Your pheromones,” Luis said. “I read the forensics reports. The pheromones trigger a strong mating reaction, regardless of gender preferences. I assume that you can … separate them? To work on anyone— _for_ anyone? _”_

“Having men trouble, Castell?” Pamela asked. “I can relate. Well, not anymore, obviously, but you wouldn't believe my past.”

“I'd believe anything in this city,” Luis said. “Can it be done? Could you make a pheromone that would give me … what you have?”

“Power over any man?” Pamela laughed. “Darling, why would I? Too many poisonous weeds shoot up in this city, and I'll be back in prison. You know, orange is not exactly my color.”

“It's just the once,” Luis said. “I only need one batch. A drop. Please, Ms. Isley, I'll … You know how helpful it will be to you to have a sympathetic ear in court.”

“It was your mouth that wasn't very sympathetic the last time,” Pamela said. “Hmm. But I am nothing if not forgiving. Mother Nature loves all her children, and you did get that horrible man that was dumping nuclear waste into the park put away for a while.”

“Anything to save the planet.”

“Don't patronize me, my needy new friend,” Pamela said. “It will cost you. Not everyone gets to play Queen Mother Nature for a day.”

“The Falcone family will cover the cost.”

A grin spread across Pamela's red lips. She took off her glasses and bit down on the end of one stem.

“Well,” the woman said, “now you're talking.”


	5. Green

[January 31, 2015]

Bruce Wayne's days and nights were blending into one another. He barely caught four hours of sleep that morning before waking to get back to work. By the time he came up from the Bat Cave, it was near dark.

“You can't possibly keep this up, sir,” Alfred told Bruce as he brought him a tray of food in the den. “You need to rest, to take some time for yourself. There is nothing wrong with a slight bit of indulgence.”

“I don't have the time,” Bruce said. “The Riddler will make his move soon, and it's only two weeks until the next holiday.”

“Valentine's Day, sir,” Alfred said. “Not precisely the most convenient night to spend hunting for a killer.”

“And how should I spend it, Alfred?” Bruce asked. “I don't have anyone since Bobby left me.”

“Says Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor.”

“Should I go out, get wasted, bring some random guy home, Alfred?” Bruce asked. “You know I'm not that kind of person.”

Alfred sighed. Even as a youth, Bruce had been calculatingly careful with his heart. Alfred did not think Bruce had always been destined to turn out that way, but he had changed after his parents were murdered. By the time Bruce reached adolescence, all of his walls had been firmly in place. It was for the best in this tough world, Alfred knew, but he still mourned the innocent boy that had given his love away freely.

The doorbell rang, and Alfred left the den. When he returned, he had Robert Halloran in tow, much to Bruce's surprise. Bruce set the tray of food on the sofa, put down the forensics journal he had been reading, and stood up.

“Bruce.”

“Bobby.”

The silence fell into awkwardness. Bobby stepped further into the den, kicking at the leg of a table as he passed it. He stayed five feet from Bruce.

“How have you been?” Bruce asked. “I haven't seen you since December. I was worried about you, kid.”

“I'm fine,” Bobby said. “I'm good, actually.”

Bruce nodded. Bobby looked good, in fact: his eyes were not underlined with dark circles for once, his skin had lost its unhealthy pallor, his pupils were normal, and there was no smell of alcohol on him. The young man had a tilt of confidence in his posture, determination rather than confusion.

“Listen, I didn't come to chat,” Bobby said. “I need you to come to my club's opening. I wouldn't ask it of you, I know how you hate doing anything, you know, _normal_ , but I don't have a choice. I kind of intimated to the press that you would be there, so if you don't show, I'm going to look like an idiot.”

“When is this opening?”

“Are you kidding me?” Bobby asked flatly. “I've spent an obscene amount of money advertising this, and you don't even know? How far down in the sand did you stick your head this time, Bruce?”

“I've been busy.”

“You mean, Batman's been busy,” Bobby scoffed. “Whatever. It's tonight, Bruce. The Black Glove is opening tonight. You don't have to come with me, you can bring someone else if you want, but you need to show your face. Just for an hour. You owe me that much, don't you?”

“All right,” Bruce said. “I'll go. On one condition.”

“You're such an ass,” Bobby muttered. “You can't even do me this one favor without asking me to do something? What do you want?”

“First, I want to talk.”

Bobby started.

“Just talk, Robert,” Bruce said, putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “We have some time before nightfall. Let's just sit and talk. I've been meaning to speak with you.”

“Fine,” Bobby gave in. “We'll talk. So talk.”

They sat down on the sofa. Bobby kept a few inches from Bruce, knowing that he could not trust himself to touch his ex-lover. He was still angry at Bruce, but he would never be over him.

“I don't want you to hate me, Bobby,” Bruce said. “I know that I hurt you by lying, but you have to understand that I didn't have a choice. If Batman's enemies knew my identity, everyone I love would be in mortal danger. That isn't an exaggeration, don't roll your eyes. Why do you think CyberKnightic attacked you that night? The Riddler was testing me, and you almost died for it.”

“Bruce, I don't care,” Bobby said. He inwardly winced at the coldness in his voice, though he knew that he shouldn't feel guilty. “Listen, I know that you had your reasons for lying to me. I even understand why you're doing what you're doing. I can forgive you—not right now, but in time.”

Bruce reached towards him, but Bobby inched away on the sofa.

“But I can't be with you,” Bobby said. “The fact is, I don't know you anymore. I don't _want_ to know the man behind Batman. I can't be involved in all of this. I can't be with you.”

“I understand,” Bruce said, though the words stung. “I still want to be friends, Bobby.”

“You can't be anyone's friend,” Bobby said with a small smile. “You're too intense. You either have family, like Alfred, or you have lovers, like me. You don't have any friends.”

Bruce frowned a little. What could he say? It was the truth.

“Things are different now,” Bruce finally said. “I'm back in Gotham, permanently. I won't always be moving on to another place, surrounding myself with another set of people. I had friends here once, and I think I can have a few again. Even if you don't want to be with me, I still want to help you, Bobby.”

“See, that's the problem!” Bobby exclaimed. “Why do you need to help me? Why do I need help? I'm fine, Bruce. I'm doing better than ever.”

“Are you?” Bruce asked, his voice turning stern. He took out his phone and brought up the picture of Bobby, Roman Sionis, and the Penguin on the docks. “You're sure about that?”

Bobby stared at the picture for a minute. Then, he sat back on the sofa and looked evenly at Bruce. He shrugged.

“So?”

“So what are you planning to do with the Penguin?” Bruce asked. “Are you and Roman going to use the Black Glove as a front for him?”

“This is why we can't be friends,” Bobby said. “This is why I don't even want to talk to you anymore. You're a control freak.”

“Sometimes people need to be pushed in the right direction.”

“Wow,” Bobby said. “I've always known that you're arrogant, but this is … ”

“Am I any more arrogant than you are?” Bruce shot back. “You're playing games with criminals, and for what? To get back at me?”

“The world doesn't revolve around you, Bruce,” Bobby told him. “Nothing that I'm doing has anything to do with you. I have priorities, goals. I'm working towards something now.”

“Towards being a criminal?”

“Towards running the best damn club in Gotham City!” Bobby snapped. He got to his feet, pacing, and began to chew on his thumbnail. “The Black Glove is located in the Penguin's territory. Roman and I went to ask his permission to open a high-profile club in his streets.”

“Don't play dumb, Bobby,” Bruce said. “You're emotional, reckless, careless, and horribly spoiled, but you're not stupid.”

Bobby looked at Bruce, surprised by the harsh honesty.

“You know that the Penguin will want more from you than token respect,” Bruce said. “He won't let the Black Glove operate unless he can use it to his advantage. He'll want to peddle drugs and whores through your club, launder money.”

“There's no club in town that doesn't do all of that and more,” Bobby said. He realized that he was chewing his thumbnail and stopped, forcing his hands into his pockets. “This is how business is done in Gotham City, Bruce.”

“And you have no problem with that?” Bruce asked, getting to his feet. “You'd go along with this game of the streets rather than try to stop it? You'd rather wallow in this city's underground than take a stand against it?”

“Why should I stand against anything?” Bobby pointed out. “I've never wanted to be better than this city. Call me a coward, but I have no inclination whatsoever to wage war against the gangsters and thieves of Gotham. I'm not you, Bruce, and I'm sure as hell not Batman.”

“I'm not asking you to be, only—”

“Only what?” Bobby shrugged. “What, Bruce? What am I supposed to do? Tell the Penguin to keep his dirty business away from my club? Start building success without paying the street tax to the men who own it? Christ, Bruce, I'd be killed! I thought you of all people knew that no one in this city is untouchable.”

“I would protect you.”

“Can you even protect yourself?” Bobby asked. “The night that you-you punished me, I wasn't only trying to be cruel. I really was worried that you would end up like your parents. And my worry turned out to be justified, didn't it?”

“I'm sorry I hit you, Bobby.”

“I'm not,” Bobby admitted. He glanced away from Bruce, into the fire blazing inside the fireplace. “No one had stood up to me in years, not even for my own good. It was sweet. It was erotic. And I did deserve it. I never should have told you something like that about your parents.”

Bruce came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Bobby stiffened, but then relaxed. He put a hand on Bruce's, and looked back up over his shoulder at his old friend.

“Still,” Bobby went on, “my point stands. You're a maniac, Bruce. You're a stubborn, selfless, brave maniac. I would love what you were doing, if I didn't hate it so much. You could be killed. You could have already been killed a million times over.”

“I know,” Bruce said, “but I haven't been.”

“And that's enough for you, isn't it?” Bobby said knowingly. He swallowed, looking into the fire again. “I'm not brave. I've always been a coward. No, don't try to lie about it to make me feel better. I know that I'm a coward, and I don't care. I want to survive this life, this damned city. I'm not smart, I don't have the respect my father has, and I'm not as strong as you are. I have to play that game of the streets that you mentioned. It's either I play along and play nice with these men that have real power, or I shelter myself up in my dad's mansion for my entire life.”

“I can protect you,” Bruce said again. “I will always protect you, Bobby, but I can't protect you from yourself.”

Bruce led Bobby back to the sofa and gently pushed him down to sit beside him. Bobby's face cracked into a cynical grin. He took both of Bruce's hands into his own.

“Aw, Bruce, are we going to have a very special episode kind of conversation now?” Bobby said cynically. “It's a good thing you're very sexy when you lecture, because you're also very boring.”

Bruce's lips thinned briefly, and Bobby's grin widened. He could not resist teasing his serious friend, despite himself. Bruce would ignore the comment, he knew, but he also knew Bruce would be just a little self-conscious in his lecturing now.

“It isn't a joke,” Bruce said in exasperation. He gripped Bobby's hands tightly, reversing the hold and taking control, as he was wont to do. “I've seen clubs like the one you're planning to open all over the world, Bobby. People die of overdoses, the basements are used for covert torture and murder, drugs flow like water. There are shootouts, shootings, beatings, all swept under the rug and kept quiet for the sake of lining the owners' pockets. Do you really want to be a part of all that?”

“I want power,” Bobby said. “I want respect. That doesn't come without a price.”

“You can earn it through HalloTech,” Bruce said. “I know it intimidates you, but you can learn how to manage your family's empire. It's a longer, slower, more difficult road, but wouldn't it be worth it to keep your hands untainted by blood?”

“I don't _want_ to be the CEO of HalloTech,” Bobby said. “I've learned enough to oversee it, but if my father doesn't recover from his cancer, I'm going to leave its everyday management to someone else on the board, someone military. It's a military company, and I don't want it.”

“You still live off of it happily enough.”

“I never denied that I'm a spoiled brat,” Bobby said simply. “But you've left Wayne Enterprises mostly to Lucius Fox so that you can do what you need to do, haven't you?”

“That's true enough, but it isn't the same.”

“Why not? Because managing a nightclub isn't as important as being a crime-fighter in a bat costume?” Bobby said angrily. “It's something I want to do.”

“None of it was even your idea,” Bruce reminded him. “Roman put all of this in your lap. Would you even be going along with it if you weren't still angry at me?”

“It isn't about you.”

Bruce knew that Bobby was as obstinate as a mule when he wanted to be. He decided to take a cue from his emotional friend and use actions rather than words. He took Bobby's face into both hands and pulled him into a kiss. Predictably, Bobby kissed him back passionately, losing himself in it before his hurt pride got in the way.

“Isn't it?” Bruce asked when their lips parted, touching the man's chin.

“If it is, it's about this,” Bobby said, frowning. “It doesn't matter whether you're lecturing, spanking, or kissing me, Bruce, you're always trying to do the same thing: change me. It's not your fault, you deal with the world that way, but I can't deal with it. It's exhausting, never feeling like you're good enough for your partner.”

“I don't think you're not good enough for me.”

“But it _feels_ that way,” Bobby said. He sighed, leaning back on the sofa. “Who are we kidding? I'm _not_ good enough for you, Bruce. That doesn't mean that I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to live up to your impossible standard. I shouldn't have to. I'm not going to be a gangster. I'm not going to try to run the streets from The Black Glove. Will we have to look the other way while the Penguin uses the club a little? Probably. I'm not going to have anything to do with it. All three of us have decided that I'm going to keep my hands clean. They need someone to have a legitimate and legal business in the club.”

“They say that now, but the lines blur very quickly, Robert.”

“I can't keep living in my bubble forever, Bruce,” Bobby said. “I'll have to deal with those choices when they come up. And you have to trust me to do that.”

“I can try, but I am a control freak,” Bruce admitted. He caressed Bobby's shoulder. “Did you know that when I returned to Gotham City, the first thing I gave Alfred was a gun?”

“What?” Bobby asked, shocked. “You hate guns, Bruce.”

“I do, but I knew the danger that would follow me from being Batman,” Bruce said. “I told Alfred that if he was going to help me, he would need to have something for protection. Alfred has given most of his life to this home, he's largely here, but he drives me, he helps me, there have even been times when he has helped Batman directly. He is discreet and careful, but the risk is always there. My greatest fear is that someone I care about will suffer, or worse, for my need to be Batman. My second-greatest fear is losing those that I love. I've lost people during my journeys overseas. I've had my heart torn out and opened up in front of me several times over. You call me brave while calling yourself a coward, but I'm not that brave. I'm terrified of the world, the same way that you are. No matter how hard I fight as Batman, all I'm doing is running from that terror.”

Bobby was chewing his thumbnail again, uncomfortable seeing Bruce's pain. Though Bruce's outward infallibility annoyed him, it was also a comfort. It was awful to see that Bruce was just as human as he was.

Bruce somehow managed to relegate his deep well of suffering back into another corner of his mind, and smiled at Bobby. He took the young man's hand by the wrist and pulled it from his mouth. Bobby marveled at how quickly and easily Bruce returned to his commanding self; it was a strength beyond what Bobby had even suspected.

“If I had my choice, I would keep you here with me,” Bruce said. “What good is money if you can't shelter the ones you love with it?”

“What good is shelter without freedom?” Bobby pointed out. “You're a Wayne, Bruce, you understand that. Your parents—do you think they would have sacrificed everything they built in this city, everything they stood for, simply to live a sheltered life? I think that even if you asked them now, they would have taken a few more precautions, but they would never have hidden themselves away out here, even in hindsight.”

“No, they wouldn't have,” Bruce agreed. His blue eyes were tinged with orange from the fire as they turned upwards to the family portrait hanging above the mantle. “I wouldn't ask that of you, or Alfred. I wouldn't ask it of anyone, even though I've lost and continue losing so many people that I love.”

“Well, thank—”

“Don't thank me yet,” Bruce said with a sly smile. “I still won't stop trying to protect you. I won't stop trying to persuade you not to surround yourself with people like Oswald Cobblepot. Most importantly, I want you to consider helping me.”

“Helping _you_?” Bobby asked, eyes wide. “With what? What the hell could I do for you?”

“For Batman,” Bruce said. “Can you give me your phone?”

Bobby did not hesitate before handing it over; if anything, he trusted Bruce implicitly. He almost reconsidered this trust when Bruce set the phone on the coffee table and began to dismantle it with a set of delicate instruments that he took from a case in his jacket pocket. Bobby leaned closely over his shoulder to watch.

 _I missed him,_ he realized. He glanced at Bruce, but the man's face was a study in concentration as he disassembled the phone. Taking advantage of Bruce's distraction, Bobby edged closer to him, and their legs brushed together. _It will never work for us, but I had missed being this close to him. The pull to him is as strong as any addiction. If I don't push him away soon, I'm just going to end up going back to him and giving all of myself over to him._

Bobby lost interest in Bruce's Frankenstein-like operations on his phone soon. He turned his profile to Bruce's, soaking in every inch of the man's face: his smooth, fair skin, the strong lines of cheekbone and jaw, the long lashes framing his intense blue eyes. He felt warm from the fire suddenly, and he loosened his tie. He was just about to give in to the urge to press his lips to Bruce's thinner, firmer ones, when Bruce turned to him. He knew Bruce caught the look in his eyes, but fortunately (or unfortunately), Bruce ignored it.

“Here,” Bruce said, pressing the phone into Bobby's hand. “There's a prototype app on there called 'Oracle'. It's something that I've been working on since I came back to Gotham, after I realized how much technology has changed the landscape of crime-fighting. No, don't open it now, you're going to need time to look into it.”

Bobby opened the app anyway, watching as the word 'Oracle' pulsed in blue on black on his phone's screen. “What is it?”

“Oracle combines all of the technology that Wayne Enterprises has designed for the government, including the NSA, as well as newer techniques and applications commercial enterprises are beginning to utilize for data-gathering,” Bruce said. “This is a highly focused window into Gotham City, the twin to the surveillance technology my computer station in the Cave uses.”

“Surveillance tech?” Bobby echoed, staring at Bruce in surprise. “You're _spying_ on people?”

“It's more specialized than anything the government uses, and thus less invasive,” Bruce explained. “How do you think I found you so quickly last November?”

“Street cameras and facial recognition,” Bobby reasoned, bordering between shock and horror. He licked his lips and looked down at the interface for the app. “This is illegal.”

“Wayne Enterprises, S.T.A.R. Labs, LexCorp, and HalloTech have similar backdoor access into government surveillance tools,” Bruce said. “It's illegal, but do you think the government cares? Technology companies buy and sell information to the highest bidder, hackers can earn easy money by selling private pictures and videos of high-profile targets to any media outlet, and private CCTV networks are beginning to sprout up faster than the government can shut them down. I'm not violating anyone that hasn't earned a look into their activities, and the rest of the information is so easily accessed that it's basically public domain.”

“All for the greater good, huh?” Bobby said. He exited the app and looked skeptically at Bruce. “And you would trust me with all of this?”

“I'm trusting you with my greatest secret already.”

“Yeah, but this is a lot of power,” Bobby said. “You don't think I'll just find some celebrity porn and sell it to TMZ for a kick? I've done dumber things out of boredom.”

“I thought that you might spill Batman's identity to someone out of spite,” Bruce said. “I waited for the story to hit the internet, that Batman is Bruce Wayne. You were hurt and angry, I'm sure you were high and drunk a few times—”

“More than a few times,” Bobby muttered.

“But you didn't tell anyone,” Bruce said. “You kept my secret, even when you hated me. You're more decent than you think you are, Bobby.”

“Yeah but _why_ give me this?” Bobby asked, tapping the phone. “You and Alfred have everything covered, don't you? I don't know if I could even understand this Oracle program.”

“You were good with computers in high school,” Bruce reminded him. “It uses a simplified interface, for convenience's sake. You could learn the program. As for why I would want you to use it, well, I need someone to back me up on an intelligence level. Alfred can't always be at a computer, not when he drives out to pick me up, and he also takes care of this house, cooks for me, cleans … he has too much to do, even if he would never complain about it. Besides, you're more knowledgeable about the digital age, you've grown up in it in a way that Alfred and I never did. I've been out in all kinds of places, I haven't always been able to be connected to the pulse of the world, but you have. As for trust, you already know my secret, I'm already trusting you with my greatest weakness. Why you, Bobby? Why _not_ you?”

“Because I don't want my life tied to you,” Bobby said. “I don't even like you being Batman. This is … It's too much, Bruce.”

“Just keep the app on your phone, kid, please,” Bruce said. “Think about it. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, but I don't think—”

“Thank you.”

“All right,” Bobby said grudgingly, pocketing his phone. “Just don't expect anything. And don't be surprised if I do use this Oracle program to find celebrity porn. I always wondered what Oliver Queen looked like naked.”

“That program is a slave to my computer station downstairs,” Bruce said. “It uses the processing power of the Cave's servers. I'll be able to see everything that you do with the Oracle program.”

“O-oh. Okay. So, no celebrity hacking for me, then?”

“Not unless you want a repeat of that spanking you say you didn't mind.”

“I didn't say I didn't _mind_ it,” Bobby said, blushing. He looked Bruce over. “Are we flirting? We're flirting, aren't we?”

Bruce reached out and took Bobby's face into his hand. He came very close to kissing him, but Bobby pushed away.

“No,” Bobby said, though every fiber of his being was saying the opposite. He stood up and straightened his jacket, exhaling as he tried to stifle his body's wayward reactions. “No. I can't go back. I can't be with you, Bruce.”

“All right,” Bruce said quietly. He nodded, stood. “Fine. I want you to think about what I'm offering you, though. Think about what Batman is, what he— _I—_ stand for. All I want from you is for you to understand that.”

“I'll try.”

“There's another favor that I needed to ask of you,” Bruce said. “You're still good at videogames, aren't you?”

Bobby did not know what to say to the apparently random question. Bruce took him by the shoulder and began to explain.

* * *

The Black Glove rolled out its purple carpet that night at seven. Celebrities and their thralls, paparazzi and press, socialites and wannabes, everyone buzzed around the club like bees to honey. Bobby's elite friends all walked and posed down the purple carpet, glossily polished to perfection: the Knight siblings, Anton and Natalia, Roman Sionis, Victor Zsasz, Selina Kyle, and Bruce Wayne as well. Oswald Cobblepot attended with two thugs, both cleaned up in crisp black suits that still did not hide their brawny girth, and a gorgeous buxom blond on his arm. Bruce Wayne did not fail to notice that no one from either the Falcone or Maroni organizations had come, and took it as yet another sign that the old mob families in Gotham City were becoming more and more irrelevant to society. He did not mourn their absence.

“No, no, we're not together,” Bobby paused on the carpet to inform a reporter. “Bruce and I are old friends. We're here as friends.”

“With benefits?”

“No comment,” Bobby said with a devilish grin before Bruce took him by the arm and not-so-gently led him away.

“Do you have to talk to the press every time you pass them?” Bruce murmured to Bobby as they both smiled and waved and headed for the club doors in spectacularly slow style.

“I look good on TV,” Bobby said. “Besides, I need to be a real celebrity to get this place established, and I'm only halfway there.”

“The boy has a point,” a smooth female voice joined in. Selina Kyle crooked her arms into Bobby's and Bruce's, turning all three of them towards a barrage of camera flashes. “Kitty Cosmetology would be nothing if I were not being touted as a cross between Paris Hilton and Anna Wintour.”

“What does that mean?” Bruce sighed, completely lost.

“You're better off not knowing,” Selina said as they turned from the photographers and meandered down the carpet. “Naiveté is like rarefied air in the digital age. I could breathe in your innocence all day, Bruce.”

“Bruce has had his own kind of fame,” Bobby said. “Haven't you, Bruce?”

Bruce gave him a warning look. He did not like the way Bobby played with secrets, knowing how easy it was for such a person to cross the line and blurt the truth out. He felt the crush of the press around them, the weight of all those prying eyes that would tear him apart the moment they knew he was Batman. Bruce drew a breath, doing his best to suppress a surge of dread.

“I've had more than my fill of celebrity,” Bruce said tersely. “There was already an internet press when my parents were murdered, in case anyone had forgotten.”

“I didn't mean that,” Bobby said, chastened. “I wasn't talking about that.”

Selina raised an eyebrow, wondering what Bobby _had_ been talking about. She looked up at Bruce, but his face was blank as a slate. But had he glanced at her leg? She had been stabbed by Thomas Blake a month ago as Catwoman, though she had no mark showing and walked without special effort. No one could have known about the injury … except the man who had stopped her; the _Bat_ man that stopped her, that is.

The blast of warmth, light, and music that hit them when they finally entered the Black Glove distracted them all from their thoughts. The amethyst-like hanging glass on the chandeliers cast the light in a purple and white glow in the otherwise dim room, while the stage and dance floor were lit up with a brilliant array of changing colors. Male and female staff wore only diamond-trimmed masquerade masks, slacks, and suspenders (tastefully positioned to cover the nipples). The style of the place was timeless, classic, and yet its blend of themes gave it a fresh gloss of newness.

“The DJ is playing all-new mixes,” Bobby said as he smiled in approval of the blaring music. “I paid a fortune for exclusivity, but it was worth it. Gotham Radio will be playing some of these tracks labeled as 'The Black Glove Mix', it's excellent publicity.”

“You're rather good at this,” Selina said. “I love the purple. You know, we might do a lipstick shade in this purple for the club.”

“Really? Yeah, we should talk about that later.”

Bruce watched Selina and Bobby chat about business. He felt a tinge of remorse for his lack of involvement with Wayne Enterprises, though he would never trade being Batman for corporate control. Not for the first time, he felt the stringent difference between his dark passion and the tamer ambitions that drove most people.

Bobby was soon swept away in a tide of meetings and greetings and conversation. Not having anything to contribute, Bruce lingered at the bar, nursing a glass of water.

“Not quite your scene, is it?” Oswald Cobblepot asked, suddenly sitting beside Bruce. He downed a shot of something amber-colored. “What's the matter, Wayne? Too good to party with the masses?”

“I'm not one for clubbing,” Bruce said coolly, turning to the man. “I came for Bobby, he's always up for a party.”

“Yes he is.”

“Not exactly the reliable type,” Bruce went on. “Not the sort of man that you would want to entrust with any … sensitive business matters.”

“Oh really?” Oswald asked, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “And what would you know about my sensitive business?”

“I know that you should keep Bobby out of it,” Bruce said bluntly. “You've seen him. He isn't cut out for your world.”

“So what is he cut out for?” Oswald asked. “Being your toy boy on a leash? Does young Robert know that you've gone behind his back to undermine his dealings with me?”

“I'm only trying to protect him.”

“Oh, of course, that's what you Waynes _do_ ,” Oswald scoffed. “You protect people, protect them from themselves, from the cesspool of their cities, the danger of finding their own success. Oy! Robert!”

Bobby was not too far from them, and he heard the call. He frowned quizzically, but came over to the two men at the bar as soon as he could disentangle himself from a small crowd.

“Tell me, young Robert, do you feel that you need protection?” Oswald asked.

“It depends on the partner,” Bobby chuckled. “What are you two talking about?”

“Bruce Wayne here is trying to convince me to keep you as far from my business interests as possible,” Oswald explained. “So tell me, Robert, do you need your strapping ex-lover here to protect you from my nefarious interests?”

“No, I don't,” Bobby said, glaring at Bruce. “I thought we just settled this. Why are you doing this? How dare you do something like this? This has nothing to do with you. I told you that!”

“Calm down,” Bruce said wearily. “Bobby—”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Bobby went on heatedly. “Do you have to make an issue out of everything? I brought you here to enjoy this night with me, and you try to domineer my life again? You _still_ have to find some way of controlling me?”

“Don't worry, young Robert,” Oswald said, slapping Bobby on the shoulder and handing him a drink. He gave Bruce a victoriously smug smile. “I don't put much stock in anything a Wayne says. You can both trust me on that.”

Oswald left them, knowing the damage had been done.

“Bobby—”

“I don't believe this,” scowled Bobby. He hit Bruce's hand away when he reached for him. “No. Don't. You're not going to ruin tonight. Just stay the hell away from me, Bruce.”

Bobby shoved through the crowd, but Bruce followed him. He caught him by the shoulder and drew him into a spot as close to empty as possible.

“I'm sorry.”

Bobby opened his mouth to argue, but the apology stunned him into silence.

“I'm not sorry for my intentions, but I am sorry if I undermined you,” Bruce said. “Cobblepot approached me and it slipped out. I'm sorry, all right?”

“Okay,” Bobby said awkwardly. “Jeez, Bruce, you really can't help yourself, can you?”

“Not when I love someone, no.”

“Bruce, I—”

They were interrupted by the crackle of gunfire. Bruce and Bobby turned in alarm. The crowd was slowly breaking out of their party high as they stopped talking and turned towards the entrance of the club. Men in green suits and domino masks were storming in. It took everyone, even Bruce, a few seconds to realize that they were not an act: they were bearing very real machine guns. Bruce was the first to spot the redhead leading them, resplendent in an emerald suit, hat, and twirling a cane with a question mark-shaped head in one hand.

“Get to the safe room,” Bruce told Bobby urgently, pulling him close by the arm with a hard yank. “Get in there and lock yourself in. Don't let anyone see you. You remember what I told you to do?”

“It's the Riddler, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Bruce said in a rush. “Put the ear wig in and listen to what happens. Activate the program as soon as you know what to do with it. I'm trusting you, Bobby.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, looking a little shell-shocked. “Yeah, okay. I'll … I'll do my best, Bruce.”

Bruce turned him and Bobby managed to slip through the crowd and to the stairwell. Bruce tried not to doubt his friend, but he did feel the magnitude of what he was entrusting him with. Alfred would clean up if Bobby failed, but Bruce hoped that Bobby could prove himself to be a capable ally. He wished there had been more time to train the kid. He hadn't expected the Riddler to make his move _this_ quickly.

When the crowd was sufficiently subdued, the Riddler hopped onto the stage and took control of the DJ's booth.

“Question: Remember me?” Edward Nigma asked the club, his voice echoing through the speakers all throughout the club's first and second floors.

Despite the guns aimed at them, the crowd booed.

“Now, now, now, is that any way to treat the man that gave you all such a show at the Augment Arena?” the Riddler asked. “And I know that many of you here recall that little spectacle. Don't you—Sionis, Zsasz, Halloran, and all your other marauding friends?”

Bruce broke through the crowd and stood beneath the stage.

“ **I** remember, Riddler,” he said. He spoke loudly enough to command the club's attention. “I won't ever forget that you hacked CyberKnightic and almost killed my best friend.”

“Oh, but we both know that you never would have allowed that to happen, don't we?” the Riddler grinned. He twirled his cane and pointed it down at Bruce. “Would you, _Batman_?”

Murmurs broke through the crowd like a rash and all eyes turned to Bruce. The club was made bizarre by the lack of music, and Bruce felt that he had stepped into a nightmare. He could feel them wondering, see them turning their cellphone cameras on him to record his reaction, or the confession they were hoping for. He wondered what they would do if he were to be exposed as Batman. Would they attack him? Would they sneer, laugh, or idolize him? Would they call the police, or Arkham Asylum? Bruce did not know which reaction he feared more.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bruce asked. He forced a cynical smile, trying to affect the casual diffidence that came so naturally to Bobby. “You're not trying to say that _I'm_ Batman?”

“This November last, I asked Gotham City a question: Who is Batman?” the Riddler announced. “Now you answer me one: Who is Bruce Wayne?”

The Riddler's goons grabbed Bruce by both arms. He made a show of futilely struggling against them, and was pulled up onto the stage. The Riddler gestured at him like a game show host showing off a prize.

“WHO IS BRUCE WAYNE?”

Bruce shrugged.

“CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” he said lightly. “World traveler. Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor. I'm a lot of things far more enjoyable than being Batman.”

“Yet you never really _do_ enjoy anything, do you, Bruce?” the Riddler pointed out.

The Riddler was controlling the club with a computer tablet he had in one hand. He brought up footage on the screen. To Bruce's dismay, it was a video displaying Bruce's moments of bored silence at most of the events he had attended since November. As the club laughed at his lack of partying spirit, Bruce began to understand why Bobby thought he was dull.

Selina Kyle stepped onto the stage then, slinking up out of nowhere like a cat.

“Bruce saves his enjoyment for more intimate parties,” Selina said. She smiled seductively and fearlessly at the Riddler. “Not that you'll ever know that, you poor, pathetic stalker.”

“I am _not_ a stalker,” Edward said, glowering at the woman as his ears turned red. He lifted his face defiantly. “I am a seeker, a seeker of truth! I know the truth now, and tonight I will prove it to all of you—to all of Gotham!”

“You can't prove what isn't real,” Bruce said. “All you're going to end up doing is proving yourself a fool, Nashton. I'm not Batman.”

“And I'm not Nashton anymore!” Edward snapped. He took off his hat. “It's Nigma, E. Nigma, the Riddler that has answered Gotham's biggest question.”

“I'm not the answer, Riddler,” Bruce said. “I am not Batman.”

“Yes, you are, and I will prove it.”

The Riddler snapped his fingers and four thugs surrounded Bruce. Two guns were put to either temple, and the other two pointed directly at his heart. There was no way that Bruce could escape without the entire room seeing him go.

“Please,” Bruce begged. “Don't do this, Nigma. I'll give you anything you want. You know who I am. You know I'm good for it.”

“Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to kill you,” Edward said. “No, no, no, killing Batman is the Joker's goal, not mine. I only want to witness your confession to Gotham.”

The video screens in the club all switched to a live video feed of the Gotham Regal.

“Such a busy place, this hotel, isn't it?” the Riddler said. “So many people checking in … and checking out.”

The view cut to one of Bruce Wayne's private suites on the top floor of the Gotham Regal. Bruce's mind turned for a second to a memory of the last time he had been there, making love to Bobby after arguing at the Falcone's Santa Lucia celebration. He was infuriated that the Riddler had invaded his home away from home, though not as infuriated as he was by the bundle of hostages tied up in the center of the room. They were bound to a big green box marked with a question mark. Bruce had no question as to the contents of the box.

“These lovely guests will be checking out by fire in another thirty minutes,” the Riddler said. “If you leave now, you should be just in time to save them, Bruce.”

Bruce went to leave but the goons held him back.

“Not so fast,” Edward smiled. “I know what you're thinking: you'll leave and call the police and let them take the credit to protect your precious identity. Before you decide to play that game, let me explain the rules of _my_ game of truth or dare to you. If police come anywhere near the Gotham Regal, if anyone but the Batman enters that suite, it is game over. So go and suit up. You're the only one that can save those people.”

“I confess to being a man of many talents, but I don't know anything about bombs,” Bruce said. “I can't save anyone. Please, you have to believe me. Those people will die, and what will that prove?”

“If you stay here and they die, don't you think that will be proof enough?” the Riddler pointed out. “How many mass killings have there been since Batman appeared in our fair city?”

“I have no idea,” Bruce said peevishly. “How the hell should I know?”

“Of innocents?” Selina spoke up. “The only one that has killed more than five people at a time since Batman has been the Joker due to his unpredictability.”

Selina and Edward's pairs of green eyes turned to Bruce expectantly. _My move,_ Bruce thought grimly. He had been grateful for Selina's help, but now he saw that she was just as suspicious of him being Batman as Nigma was. She was playing into this game to satisfy her own curiosity. _She should remember what curiosity does to cats,_ Bruce thought sourly.

“I've left bread crumbs for Batman,” Edward said. “I'm even giving him this!”

The screens showed the Bat Signal light shining in the sky above the city, the center of the bat now bearing a question mark, and then displayed a question mark in green lights shining from the windows of Bruce's suite at the Gotham Regal. The screens turned back to the live feed of the hostages in Bruce's hotel suite. The club's crowd had forgotten their own hostage situation by now, enraptured by the confrontation on the stage.

“An easy puzzle for Batman to solve,” the Riddler said. “If he doesn't solve it, now why would that be? Because he was otherwise engaged? Hm, Bruce?”

Bruce shook his head, saying nothing.

“You'd better hurry,” Nigma said, checking a gold watch under his jacket sleeve. “Twenty-seven minutes to go, Bruce. Will you go?”

“No, I'm not going anywhere,” Bruce said stubbornly. “Batman will solve your damn puzzle, and I'll stay here. Let them see, Nigma. I'm not Batman.”

Edward's confidence faltered for just a moment. He smirked and tapped the end of his cane on the stage floor.

“All right, then,” he said. “Let us see the truth with our own eyes.”

 _Let's see if I really can trust you, Bobby,_ Bruce thought.

* * *

Bobby cursed as he bit so hard at the corner of his thumbnail that he drew blood. He shook his head and spit into a tissue. He spread his hands on the surface of his desk, staring at the screen showing the events going on down on the stage. He was lost for a moment, and then he turned on the earwig.

“Alfred?”

“ _I'm here, Master Robert.”_

“Alfred,” Bobby breathed in relief. He had never been so happy to hear that dry British voice in his life. “Did you get all of that?”

“ _I did, sir. I would recommend that you activate the doppelganger program now, if I may, sir.”_

“You know, I never quite buy all your 'sir's,” Bobby said, plugging his phone into the club's security systems. He sat down at the surveillance system and held the phone sideways like a videogame controller. “You're a servant, but you don't really serve anyone's will, do you?”

“ _I serve those that I choose to …_ sir _. Have you activated it yet?”_

“Yes,” Bobby said, licking his dry lips. He stood before the screens, waiting. “It's starting up. But how am I going to get to the suite and disarm the bomb in time?”

“ _One step at a time, Master Robert. Relax and focus on the program. According to Master Bruce, it should be just like controlling a videogame, er … avatar.”_

The screens burst into motion, a dark and bright blur. The view slowed to a stop, stabilized, and suddenly Bobby was seeing a first-person view of Gotham City from the top of a tall building. It looked exactly like a videogame, though far too real. Bobby took up the controls, as he had practiced earlier with Bruce in the Bat Cave.

“ _The Gotham Regal should be five miles east, sir.”_

“If I know anything, I know Gotham City's finer locations,” Bobby said. “I know where it is, Alfred. The program identifies grappling spots, it's just point and shoot. This is incredible, Alfred!”

“ _Try to refrain from spending too much time playing around, please, Master Robert.”_

“You don't have to tell me twice.”

Bobby shut his eyes and told himself that it was only a game. Slightly calmer, he guided the remotely-controlled robotic Batman replica to the Gotham Regal. Bobby might have done too good of a job convincing himself that it was a videogame: he used the explosives the replica was armed with to blow straight through the windows of Bruce's suite to get in.

“ _I had disabled the security of the suite, sir. You could have simply opened a window.”_

Seeing the hostages in real time jolted Bobby back to reality. No videogame had ever emulated the sheer terror that he could see on their faces. Too clearly, Bobby guided the robot through the room, seeing every bead of sweat on their faces, every smear of make-up and tears. Bobby shook, but he retained control of himself regardless.

“Alfred?” he asked desperately. “The bomb?”

Alfred was calm and assured as he guided Bobby through disarming the bomb. The controls were more complex here, and Bobby used infinite care as he guided the robot's hands into the delicate wiring of the thing. He was sweating himself by now, and every inch of him but his hands shook violently.

Bobby could scarcely believe it when the bomb's lights went out. He asked Alfred several times if it was truly disarmed, and Alfred finally convinced him that the threat was over. Bobby guided the robot to untying all the victims, and was certain to look into the camera planted above the bomb. He had seen the robot, and even in person it was impossible to tell that it was not the living, breathing Batman.

“ _Well done, Master Robert,”_ Alfred said at the end, sounding insultingly surprised. _“Very well done. I'll shut the program down and send the machine home, then.”_

Bobby almost didn't want his remote adventure as Batman to end, but he bit his lip and disconnected his phone. The program devoured itself and was gone from the club computers, the screens returning to their view of the club. Bobby turned on the ear-piece that connected him to Bruce's microphone and sat down to watch the rest of the events play out.

* * *

The club cheered deafeningly when Batman freed the hostages. The Riddler dropped his cane to the stage floor, it's clatter going unheard. He ran up to the screen, touching it as if that would prove or disprove something.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, no, no! That can't be Batman! It isn't! It isn't Batman! It _can't be_!”

“How can it not be?” Bruce said gently. “Just minutes ago, you explained to us all how the live feed can't be hacked or modified. Go on and analyze the video, run facial recognition. You'll see that it is Batman, and that he can't possibly be me.”

Nigma paced the stage, tugging at his hair, tapping his tablet screen desperately. The club-goers were restless now that the danger was over, and were shouting at him. The thugs were barely holding them back, and getting anxious.

“It can't be him,” Edward said. “It _can't_ be! No, no, no! Facial recognition checks out. The feed is pure. But it can't be … it just can't … I can't be wrong!”

Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. Edward whirled around, but there was no danger in him left, only confusion.

“You were wrong,” Bruce said. “It's over, Nigma. Give me the tablet. Let me call Gordon. He can help you. You haven't hurt anyone yet.”

Edward's shoulders slumped. Bruce took the tablet from him effortlessly and used it to restore cell service to the vicinity. He contacted the police, as he was sure the crowd would do after they finished updating their social media sites with pictures of the debacle.

By the time Gordon and Bullock arrived, Edward was sitting docilely on the stage floor. The thugs had abandoned the place once their leader had given up, a few of them stealing souvenirs from the rich crowd on their mad rush out. Fortunately, the goons were mostly hackers with guns, and not trigger-happy enough to let off a single shot.

“Edward,” Gordon said quietly. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back, Ed. Come on. It's over.”

Edward did as he was told, meek as a child. Before he was led away in cuffs, he stopped in front of Bruce.

“It was a good guess, though, wasn't it?” he asked. “You had the motive. You had the resources. It was a good answer?”

“It was,” Bruce allowed. “It just wasn't the right answer, Edward.”

Bobby came onto the stage. He looked to be in good spirits. Bruce gave him a proud smile, and Bobby grinned. Gordon was trying to tell everyone to go home when Bobby took the DJ microphone from him.

“Why would you want to go anywhere?” Bobby asked the crowd. “Are you kidding me? Another freak has gone down in Gotham! There's got to be a drinking game in that somewhere, right?”

The crowd cheered.

“I thought that after all you've been through, you'd close up,” Gordon said, dismayed. “You were all taken hostage.”

“Are you kidding me? That's just another day in Gotham City for the rich and famous,” Bobby replied cheerfully. “Hell, for _anyone_! But we're good, the other hostages are good, it's all good. It's a good night, let's enjoy it!”

“We're going to need statements, you're all witnesses!”

“So stay and get them, Commish,” Bobby said. “Hey, free drinks to the boys in blue, right? Gotham's finest!”

“They're on duty!” Gordon roared, cutting the cheers of his men short.

“Hey, now,” Bullock interrupted. “Shift's just ending. Why not get the statements and then take the rest of the night off?”

Gordon glared at him.

“Yeah, Commissioner, why not?” Bobby said. He cued up the music and the club came to life as swiftly as it had upon opening its doors. “We're not going to let the night be ruined by another freak! This is _our_ city! Batman is _our_ protector! This is _our_ night!”

Gordon gave up the battle after that. He escorted Edward out alone, as Bullock and the others stayed in the club to collect their free drinks. Police mingled with the social elite as they never had before, and the party went on harder than ever. Bruce had to admit that Bobby had a knack for uniting people through revelry. The Black Glove would either be a marvelous bridge of indulgence, or a dangerous melding pot of vice.

“That was amazing,” Bobby whispered to Bruce when they found a moment alone in a private booth. “It was like a videogame but … but _real_. Christ, it scared the shit out of me, but I did it! I actually pulled it off, Bruce.”

“You did good, k—Bobby.”

“It felt so powerful, it was such a rush!” Bobby went on, his dark eyes gleaming. “I can see why you love it, Bruce, I really can. But why don't you use the machine all the time? I mean, you wouldn't be risking anything if you just used that thing.”

“Eventually, the robot would be exposed, and hacked,” Bruce explained. “Besides, it's too easy to lose yourself in the power of unreality when fighting through a machine; being desensitized to your own danger eventually leads to becoming apathetic to _all_ danger, yours and your enemies'. The limits have to be tangible, they have to be _real_.”

“Maybe, but I think it's something else,” Bobby said. “You like the experience to be real. The violence gratifies you, doesn't it? You couldn't get that visceral satisfaction remotely.”

“I would be lying if I denied that,” Bruce said. “So, are you ready for the Oracle program?”

“What? Are you kidding me?” Bobby laughed. “It was cool to help you this once, sure, but what do you think? That I'm going to be some kind of sidekick?”

“I thought you might want to be a part of my world, yes.”

Bobby exited the booth and Bruce followed him. They walked through the crowded club, Bobby stopping to talk to people as they went. Bruce's earlier hope faded to disappointment. Bobby was trustworthy and capable, but not willing. _We're too different,_ Bruce thought as he watched his handsome friend expertly charm the crowd.

“No,” Bobby said. “No, sorry, Bruce. I have this place. I have HalloTech. I'm good. I'm good now, and I can't complicate my life. Not even for you.”

Bruce kissed him, on the side of the mouth. Bobby's face twisted with uncertainty and regret. He smiled sadly, a hand briefly on Bruce's chest, and gave Bruce his modified phone with the Oracle program on it.

“I'll see you around, Bruce.”

“See you … kid.”

Bruce sat at the bar to survey the place for the last time, knowing he would not be frequenting his friend's club. He wondered what it must be like to be so easily self-centered, to be free of the burden of care for a broken world and its suffering people. He thought that it must be freeing for some, though it would feel empty to him.

 _Would it?_ Bruce wondered. _Would it really feel emptier than my life does right now?_

“Oh, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce turned, surprised to find Assistant District Attorney Luis Castell sitting beside him at the bar. Luis raised his eyebrows at Bruce's weary expression and slid his glass over to him.

“I think you need this more than I do,” he said. “Crazy night, isn't it?”

“It is,” Bruce said, accepting the drink and taking a sip. “I hadn't seen you earlier. Is this your kind of scene, Mr. Castell?”

“Oh, call me 'Luis', please,” the man said with a smile. “I don't usually go in for this kind of thing, but I, er … I came with someone. He's moved on by now, though.”

Luis motioned for another drink.

“I'm sorry,” Bruce said politely. He looked down at Luis's hands, the small ones that a .22 would suit so well. He decided to use this opportunity to get to know the man better and see if his suspicions were justified. “Not to pry, but you're … ”

“Gay? Yes,” Luis said. “Given that Robert Halloran is one of the owners, I thought this might be a good, open place to mingle. Not that Gotham has many closed-minded places left, thank God. It's all like this—” He gestured around the mass of grinding, laughing, flirting humanity. “—an endless, open party.”

“I'm not very good at parties, as the Riddler so cleverly showed everyone here.”

“Neither am I,” Luis admitted. “I can't shut my eyes to the underside of it all, the ugliness under the mask. The kids I grew up around, all they wanted was an invite to a better party, money to buy their way into the ease of affluence. Equality only meant having as much fame and fortune as the next person, justice was being able to do whatever they wanted and get away with it, and freedom only meant being beyond right and wrong. So many of them, even friends, became fodder for the gang wars. Others found their dreams come true through a needle or a bottle or a pill. I made it past all of that, only to be hated for it, to be called a sell-out, a coward, and worse. But my parents fought very hard to give me the freedom they never had. What else could I do?”

“Your parents?”

“My parents are from Santa Prisca,” Luis said. “They fought for freedom, against many of the would-be dictators and the iron grip of the government. They had nothing left in the end, they could only die or escape, and so they spied for the US government's interests there in exchange for citizenship here. I grew up very aware of their struggle, of how easily any place in the world can fall into the chaos of anarchy or the unrelenting abuse of corrupt leaders.”

Bruce found the man's honesty charming, and was genuinely intrigued by him. He took another sip of his drink, relaxing into the club's atmosphere more than he had earlier.

“Sorry to dump all that on you,” Luis said self-consciously. “You just seemed like a good listener and I'm … I don't know, I've been … like this.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Just life, life in Gotham,” Luis said vaguely. “But I didn't come out here to talk. I came out tonight to drink. Didn't you?”

“Actually, I only came out for Bobby,” Bruce said. “Which didn't go so well, admittedly.”

Luis raised his glass and Bruce was obliged to raise his. They drank together for a long moment. Bruce loosened his tie as he felt the warm, minty liquor burning down his throat. The club was very warm, but it was a pleasant warmth. Instead of assaulting him like a cacophony, the steady throbbing beat lulled Bruce into a heady, hopeful serenity.

“We're too different, Bobby and I,” Bruce said. It was out of his character to open up to a near-stranger, but he felt comfortable speaking with soft-spoken, earnest Luis. “I guess it was never going to work. I can't block out the underside of Gotham, either.”

“Well, I can understand that, given your parents,” Luis said. He winced. “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring that up.”

“I'm used to it, it's all right,” Bruce said. “My parents' murder opened my eyes. Maybe it was too early, maybe not. In any case, well … here I am.”

“Here we are.”

Luis lifted his glass again, and they both drank again. _He isn't at all bad-looking,_ Bruce thought, taking a closer look at the prosecutor. _He's boyish, but more severe and serious than Bobby. There's a gravity to him. Those big hazel eyes are sad, lonely, completely aware of the true nature of this city. He sees the world the way I do, doesn't he?_

“This isn't where I really want to be tonight,” Bruce said. “Why don't we go somewhere quieter? Have you had dinner?”

“I haven't, actually,” Luis said. “Oh, finish your drink. I paid for it, and a prosecutor can't exactly afford to waste twenty-dollar drinks.”

Bruce downed the rest of the concoction in one go. His head spun momentarily, but quickly cleared. He felt good, more at peace than he had in a while. He hated to admit it, but letting Bobby go was exactly what he needed. Perhaps Alfred was right about finding time for himself. Valentine's Day was approaching, and who said that he had to spend the _entire_ night searching for Holiday?

Bruce had Alfred drive them to the Gotham Regal. Like the Black Glove, the night's hostage situation had not closed the Regal's doors or dampened its popularity. Bruce spoke to the management about having his suite fixed up, wrote a check, and then sat at a private table in the restaurant to have dinner with Luis.

“I never even knew this area of the restaurant existed,” Luis said when they were shut away from the rest of the diners by a clever turn of walls and a decorative screen.

“That's the point,” Bruce said. “My family has a longstanding stake in the Regal, this table and the suite upstairs are just perks.”

“Just perks,” Luis echoed with an amused snort. “I can only imagine what DA Dent would say about that. I was surprised that you two were friends, actually. He has a not-so-passively aggressive attitude towards the upper class.”

“Believe me, I've noticed,” Bruce chuckled. “But Harvey is a good man. I don't blame him for being cynical about Gotham's rich, it's justified more often than not.”

“The poor are no better, believe me,” Luis said. “But I don't want to talk about the city. I have a rule: when you can't hear the city, it doesn't exist.”

“That's a good rule,” Bruce said. “I should take it up.”

“You should,” Luis said. “It's the only way to stay sane in this damn place.”

The waiters brought their food and they ate. After some moments of trying to think of something to discuss other than the city, both men realized that they were at a loss. They met each other's eye and laughed. It was so rare for Bruce to laugh that the sensation felt alien to him.

 _It's working,_ Luis realized as their conversation turned to lighter matters. He saw Bruce's light blue eyes taking on a greenish tinge, and beneath his collar the veins in his neck bulged greenly. Luis swallowed anxiously, guilt creeping into him as insidiously as Poison Ivy's love potion was taking root in Bruce's system. _Pamela Isley didn't cheat me after all. What must it be like for her, to be able to enrapture anyone she wants like this? My God, the freaks can be powerful sometimes._

Bruce's eyes eventually glazed over, and his face flushed with a robust blush. He moved his chair closer to Luis. Luis had taken the opposite concoction to Bruce's dose, and though it did not cause him any side-effects, he could not help being drawn in by Bruce Wayne. When their hands brushed accidentally, Luis felt a rush of blood pounding through his body.

 _He's a truly beautiful man,_ Luis thought regretfully. _I thought that he would be conceited or shallow, that he would have some flaw that would make this tolerable. But he's a good man, genuine, caring. If all of this was real, it would be a dream come true. God, I wish it was real. I hate to do this to him, to sink this low._

Despite his moral objections, Luis did not hesitate at all when Bruce leaned in to kiss him. He could feel the lust burning in Bruce, ignited by Isley's pheromones or poisons or whatever she had put into the two tiny vials of clear liquid Luis had poured into the drink he had handed over to Bruce at the Black Glove's bar. The sheer force of Bruce's desire almost intimidated Luis, as if he were a confused teenager again.

Bruce reserved a hotel suite to use while his own was being cleaned up. He half-undressed Luis in the elevator on their way up to it. Luis let go of his guilt and desperation, even of the harrowing fear he felt for his kidnapped parents. He had been living under the strain of fear and guilt for months, and he seized on the moment of drunk abandon desperately.

 _It isn't so bad, being selfish,_ Bruce thought in his last moment of coherence. He was blissfully high, in lust if not love, and Gotham City had slipped his mind entirely. Luis was open and handsome and uncomplicated, a refreshing change from Bruce's usual angst-ridden type. _I think I'll stay here in this_

_(green)_

_in this ecstasy. Gotham can sort itself out for now. I want this. I want to be happy. Don't I deserve to be happy for once in my life? I want this._

_I need this._

_I deserve this._


	6. Cold Comforts

[February 10, 2015]

Bobby woke up to the patter of a hard rain beating at the windows. For a moment, he was disoriented by the view of the city and the cavernous space around him. He rolled onto his side and reached across the bed, his hand brushing over a steadily rising and falling, muscular chest.

 _Bruce,_ Bobby thought. He tried to hold onto the thought, but reality crept in the moment the happy fantasy brought a smile to his lips. He curled his hand on the other man's chest, and sighed. It was not Bruce Wayne, he knew, there was a different feel and smell to this person. Still, at least he was not waking up alone.

Bobby had been very skeptical when the Penguin had introduced him to alternative therapist and professed sadist Dr. Simon Hurt. In fact, he had laughed in Dr. Hurt's face at the appropriateness of his name. Simon was not deterred, being used to derision and mockery due to certain of the services he provided. Out of boredom and loneliness, Bobby had gone to a few talk therapy sessions with him, then delved into the lesser-traveled road of alternative therapy. He found himself opening up to Simon, far more than he had to anyone save for Bruce, and their relationship deepened. Not one to abide by the normal boundaries of professionalism, Simon eventually took the younger man on as a lover.

Simon stirred and his eyes opened. His eyes were brown, with a tint of red that some people had that gave the eyes an ember-like glow. He stretched his arms, long and lean with wiry, well-developed muscles. Simon looked at Bobby, smiled, and ran his fingers down the young man's spine. He rested his hand at the base of Bobby's back, caressing him there lightly.

“You're shivering.”

“It's cold.”

Bobby lay against the man for a few minutes, almost dozing off again. Finally he stretched and pushed himself off of him. He sat up as Simon ruffled his hair and climbed off the bed, yawning and rubbing the sand of sleep from his eyes. The rainy day ushered in a gray light that painted his loft into a dreary, static neatness. For the first time since moving into Gotham proper, Bobby missed his childhood home, the Halloran Estate just past the borders of Gotham City. Despite the high-end décor, despite the independence that the loft symbolized, and the importance its view from the high floor commanded, Bobby only wanted to go back home today.

Simon turned on the lights and turned the thermostat up before he went into the secondary bathroom to shower. Bobby grudgingly got out of bed and used the master bathroom to go about preparing himself for the day. He lingered in the warm water of the shower, letting the steam flow through him as if it could permanently chase away any chill.

The coldness was more mental than physical, however, and Bobby could not shake it. Even fully dressed, he had to fight to keep from shivering. Simon noticed, but did not say anything. They both knew that it was a cold day, indeed.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Simon asked at the door.

“No,” Bobby said quietly. He wound a scarf around his neck and put on one of the hats that were coming back into fashion in Gotham. “No, I have to do this on my own.”

“I'll be in my offices, then,” Simon said. “You want to meet for lunch?”

“Yeah, okay.”

They went in silence to the elevators, and left each other outside with only a brief kiss. Bobby greeted his driver, and gave instructions to be driven to HalloTech. He got in the car and watched the rain falling on the bleak city as the car moved along the streets.

There were multiple security checks at HalloTech, even for the acting CEO. Though Bobby bypassed the standard ID check by using his key card at the executive's entrance, he still needed fingerprint, facial, and retina scans before accessing the Research and Development floors. One wing of the basement's fourth level had been turned into a private hospital room, and it was here that Bobby directed himself.

Walter Halloran lay in the hospital bed, a ghastly yellowed ghost of himself. Despite his ailing body, Walter's eyes were still sparkling with life when he looked over at his son. Victor Fries stood from the bedside chair he had been sitting on and he poured a glass of water for Walter to drink. Walter sat up, making an obvious effort to grip the glass himself. Bobby felt his own throat go dry as he watched his father, formerly so imperviously strong, struggle to keep a glass of water upright.

“Well, you're here, so let's do this thing,” Walter said without preamble. He handed the glass to Dr. Fries and somehow found the strength to swing his legs off the side of the bed. He inhaled sharply, took a moment, and managed to stand without taking Victor's proffered arm. “Let's go pop me in the freezer, Fries.”

Bobby had to smile at his father's resoluteness. He did not know how men like Bruce and his father bit down on their fear and smothered it before it smothered them. As a youth, he had thought that these men simply did not feel as deeply as other people did, but now he knew differently; the men felt, they felt as deeply or more deeply than anyone else, but they accepted their feelings and controlled them. He wished that he had that capability, but no matter how many times Bruce had told him he did, he could never seem to grasp it.

Dr. Fries disconnected Walter Halloran from the myriad machines that were monitoring his decline and trying to stave it off. Walter stood stock still, ever the Marine, as the wires and needles were withdrawn from his body. He walked into the bathroom to finish emptying his bladder (he had emptied everything else a week ago and had fasted for the past three days) and dress in the specialized suit that would preserve him through the freezing process.

Walter looked very sparse in the skintight white suit, the curves of his skeleton showing through skin and suit both, the whiteness garishly contrasting his yellowed skin. He held his hairless head high regardless, and needed no help from Victor or Bobby as they left the room. It was Bobby that reached out to him in the hall, to take his father's hand as he had not done since he was a small child. Walter almost took his hand away out of pure instinct, but he looked down at his son then, smiled, and grasped his hand with a strength that belied his fragile appearance.

The cryogenic laboratory was frigid, and Bobby began to shiver once again. Victor's wife floated in her glass tank, like an eerie blue angel watching over them all beneath her lowered golden lashes. A twin tank beside hers awaited Walter, the blue liquid within deceptively still and serene. Bobby's eyes filled with tears the moment he saw it, and he had to take a deep breath of the cold air to keep them from falling. When he exhaled, his breath was visible as a small white cloud.

Walter went towards the tank, but Bobby held him back by the hand.

“Wait, dad, I … Just wait a minute, please.”

Walter put a hand on his son's shoulder.

“I won't say 'goodbye', son,” he said gently. “I fully intend to thaw out to perfect health, you know that.”

“I know, of course, but … but in case … ” Bobby stammered. He collected himself, not wanting his possible last words to his father to be more of the stuttering, emotional dribble that Walter had always tired of. “I just want to say something to you. Before.”

“Okay, that's fine, Robert,” Walter said. Though he showed no outward sign of pain, his grip on Bobby's shoulder tightened. “You say what you have to to me.”

“I know I've never been the son you wanted,” Bobby said softly. “All I've done is disappoint you, and disappoint myself. I can't apologize for being what I am, and I can't apologize for not being everything that I'm not. I was never going to be a soldier or a CEO like you were. I was never going to be a politician like granddad. You deserved a son like Bruce Wayne or Thomas Elliot, like all the boys that grew up to be better men than I am.”

“Robert, no one is better than you,” Walter said, surprising Bobby. He took him by both shoulders now. “Look at me, son. Just look.”

Bobby met his father's eyes. Though Walter's were sunken and small, creased deeply at the corners, his brown eyes were still very much like Bobby's.

“I wouldn't trade you, Robert, not for any of those other boys,” Walter said. “Were you the kid I expected? Well, no, no you weren't. And it's my fault for letting you think all these years that that meant I was disappointed with you, that you were some kind of disgrace to me. _I_ disgraced our family, not you, Robert. When your mother left, I was afraid to lose you, too. I stopped disciplining you because I couldn't bear the idea of you hating me. I stopped spending so much time with you because loving you so much almost drove me insane with fear. I was the coward, not you. I was afraid to feel anything. You're afraid of a lot of things, I know that, but you've never been afraid to feel. You're so much like your mother in that … ”

“Mom didn't feel anything when she left us.”

“That was … out of her control,” Walter said carefully. He paused for a long moment, his eyes showing some inner debate. “I don't blame her. You shouldn't, either. She loved you. I'm sure she still loves you, even if she can't be with you now.”

Bobby frowned, wondering what his father could possibly mean. He spoke as if the woman had died, but she had simply walked out, hadn't she?

“I don't want any other son but you, Robert,” Walter said. “I don't want you to believe anything else, no matter what. If I never do wake up from this permafrost, I just want you to remember that. I love you more than anyone else in this world, just as you are.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Walter echoed, blinking. “Why do I love you? You're my son, and you're a good man.”

“I'm a waste of space,” Bobby sighed. He walked from his father to stand before the tank. “If I were put in this thing today, no one would care. Hardly anyone would even notice for more than a minute that I was gone. I'm twenty-seven, and what have I done? What have I accomplished? I'm standing in for you at HalloTech and barely managing. I opened a night club. Who cares?”

“You just lack focus, and that's my fault,” Walter said, coming beside Bobby and also looking up at the tank. “I couldn't direct you into any path that I was familiar with, and so I stopped directing you altogether. I let you go, when I never should have stopped holding you close. I only hope that one day you'll forgive me for that.”

“I don't blame you for anything,” Bobby said. He drew a shaky breath, and the tears returned. “I never did.”

“Well, I don't blame you, either. I love you, son,” he said fiercely, drawing Bobby into a rare embrace. “I love you, and I'm proud of you. Don't ever believe anything different.”

Bobby let the tears fall. They slipped down his face, onto the smooth white fabric of the cryogenic suit his father wore. A whirlwind of memories ran through his mind, and he thought abstractedly of the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey, the sight of his father sitting formidably behind his study's massive walnut desk, his father shaking hands in full military dress in the nation's capitol, his father shaking the hand of his old friend Thomas Wayne while his wife greeted Martha Wayne with a kiss on each cheek on the last Thanksgiving both families had spent together. The young man cried for it all, those moments that had been and never would be again, the familiar faces that had vanished one by one throughout the years, the ache of family separating.

Walter said nothing, letting the young man cry. He was nearly in tears himself when Bobby finally pulled back from him. He regretted the separation, thinking bitterly of the years he had wasted being uncomfortable with physical affection; it seemed such a petty, stupid thing now, the doctrine of isolation that had been drilled into him since boyhood, the rules of being 'a man'. He thought that he should have held his son more, should never have let so many tears fall without a word or touch of comfort to soothe them.

Bobby dried his eyes on a tissue that Victor Fries discreetly came over to hand him. He managed a brave smile, though his nose and cheeks were red from cold and emotion. He looked too young to be left without a father, Walter thought, a man yet still in many ways the boy he had always been.

“I **will** beat this thing,” Walter resolved, more for his own reassurance than Bobby's. “And I'll be there for you when I do. I promise you that much, son.”

“I know,” Bobby said. “I love you, dad.”

The open honesty of those simple words almost broke Walter. He had never deserved his son's love, but he had always known that he had it. Bobby was not only forgiving, he usually took all the blame for rejection upon himself. Walter was ashamed of how greedily he had taken that love for granted all these years, the wanton disregard of it that had driven him away from his son on so many tours and trips. Every moment wasted on foolish pride was another small dagger of regret in him now, and he let the pain consume him, knowing he had pinned each blade into his heart himself.

The cryogenics lab doors opened, and the three men turned.

“Amanda,” Walter breathed in shock. “I thought you were in D.C.. What are you doing here?”

Amanda Waller was a tall, stately black woman of near middle age, elegantly dressed and immaculately groomed. Her long legs carried her into the room briskly, and she seemed impervious to the cold. She stood before Walter for a moment, her large dark eyes warming as she looked at him.

“I'm not going to tell you goodbye, General,” Amanda said. She extended her hand. “Good luck.”

Walter shook her hand firmly, and then pulled her closer by the hand. Bobby and Victor stared with wide eyes as the General kissed Amanda with a ferocity that heated the cold air. Victor averted his eyes and cleared his throat. Bobby watched, stunned, and began to bite at his thumbnail. He had to hand it to his father: he was a complicated and bold man right until the end.

“Exactly what was that?” Amanda asked, more amused than anything else.

“One more for the road, Amanda,” Walter said with a smile that took years off his face. He winked at her. “Just one more for the road.”

“Aha,” Amanda said. She kissed his cheek. “It better not be the last one, soldier. I'll hunt you down in Hell if it is, so help me.”

“It won't be,” Walter said. “I promise you that.”

Amanda smiled and stepped back from him. Walter looked at his son and his sometimes-lover (when had that happened, Bobby wondered) both. He smiled and saluted them, then turned to Dr. Fries.

“Well, any longer and I'll be frozen to this spot, doc,” he said. “Let's get this thing done already.”

Victor nodded. Walter was injected with a vibrant blue chemical. Amanda and Bobby watched as the liquid tensed the veins in his neck and hands, lighting them subtly with a deep blue glow. Walter's papery yellow skin took on a blue hue that made Bobby queasy to see. Even the white of Walter's eyes, previously jaundiced, turned a ghostly blue. Tranquility stole over him, and his eyes were faraway. His last conscious thought was that freezing to death was not such a bad way to go, compared to the horrible ways he had seen men die in the war and at home in Gotham.

Walter was put into a chamber beneath the tank and it sealed automatically with a rush of air. Victor busied himself at the control panel for some time as Bobby and Amanda stood in solemn silence. Everything was so still that Bobby almost felt himself lost in the cold serenity.

The sound of rushing liquid startled him out of the quiet. Walter was ejected from the chamber into the tank above. Bobby bit his bottom lip hard to keep from swearing or crying. Walter was unconscious by now, and he resembled nothing more than a husk in the tank's blue solution. The bubbles ebbed away and the tank grew still once more. Walter and Mrs. Fries floated in their respective tanks, suspended in an eternal winter.

Amanda Waller reacted first. She walked to the tank and held a palm to its cold surface.

“Good luck, General Halloran,” she said. Then, more warmly, “I'll see you later, Walter.”

Bobby could not bring himself to go to the tank. He thanked Victor Fries for his work and bid him to take care of his father. Amanda left with him, and Fries stayed in his frosty laboratory.

“I'm sorry about that,” Amanda said in the hallway. “I didn't think your father would be so obvious.”

“No, it's all right,” Bobby said. “I just didn't know that you two were together. I mean, I kind of suspected, on that last trip to D.C., but he never said anything.”

“He's a private man, your father.”

They stopped at the elevators to wait. Amanda faced Bobby, looking the young man up and down with frank interest. She thought of all the times Walter had confessed the boy's (she only saw him as Walter's boy) sins to her, only to end every speech with, _'Don't get me wrong, Bobby's a good kid. I just worry about him so much.'_

“He loves you,” Amanda said. “He probably told you already, but don't think it was due to obligation. It's always been very clear to anyone that really knows him how much he loves you, Robert.”

“Thank you.”

“It's only the truth,” Amanda said. “I'm sorry if my coming here upset you.”

“No, I'm not upset,” Bobby said. “I'm glad my father had someone before … this. He's been alone for way too long. Maybe after he beats the cancer, you two can spend more time together?”

“I would like that,” Amanda said with a small smile. She had a serious face that was not meant for smiles, but the upturn of her full lips gave her a lovely warmth. “Although I still have a lot on my plate in Washington.”

The elevator doors opened and they got in. The chill of the basement lessened as the little box climbed up towards ground level.

“I would have flown in to wish your father luck no matter what, but it's not my only reason for coming to Gotham, as it happens,” Amanda told Bobby. “Now might not be the right time for you to discuss this, but there are some contracts that I've brought on behalf of the Department of Defense that the board should go over.”

“No, we can do it now,” Bobby said. “The board is in to go over some more details of the transfer of power to me in my father's extended absence. I think working will be good for me right now. You're good to go on up?”

Amanda took a tablet computer out of her jacket's inner pocket.

“I have everything I need right here.”

“Good. We'll get to it, then.”

“A man after my own heart,” Amanda said. “There's some of Walter in you after all, isn't there, Robert?”

“I hope so.”

* * *

Bobby spent the entire morning in the boardroom meeting, his mind thankfully distracted from the fact that his father was drifting into cold sleep in HalloTech's basement lab. The weariness of lunchtime returned his grief, however, and Bobby began to feel claustrophobic in the building.

Bobby did not escape HalloTech until past one-o-clock in the afternoon. His stomach was twisting with hunger by then, and he was miserable and spent. He drove himself to the building where Simon Hurt kept his offices, not even bothering to call beforehand. Simon did not appear to mind, finishing his current appointment and then accompanying Bobby to lunch at the exclusive Starlight Room.

Though he was physically starving, Bobby could hardly bring himself to eat. He sat despondently at the table, poking at his food with a fork. Though it was early, Simon called for a bottle of strong red wine for them. After having a few glasses, Bobby's appetite returned and he wolfed down his meal without hardly speaking a word.

“How was it?” Simon asked when the meal had slowed for the savor of dessert.

“I'm trying not to think about it,” Bobby said quietly. “My father was always there, you know? No matter how much I screwed up my life, no matter if he was at home or overseas or in Washington, I always knew that he would help me out if I needed it. And all I've ever done was waste that by taking advantage of it. I could never make my dad proud of me, so I just gave up. I blamed him for everything and made it my life's mission to embarrass him. Why did I do that, Simon? Why did I waste so much time making us both so miserable?”

“You probably found it easier to get negative attention than positive attention, so you went with that,” Simon told him. “It's a natural reaction to perceived rejection.”

“I just wish I had more time,” Bobby said. “We had just started understanding each other, and now he's gone.”

“I'm sure you'll have more time with him,” Simon said. “I've read a lot about Victor Fries's research and it's pretty groundbreaking stuff.”

“I hope so,” Bobby said. “I really do. I've spent so much time running away from dad, from home, from everything. Today, I'd give anything just to go home again.”

“Why don't you?”

“What?”

“Go home,” Simon said. “We'll go there right now.”

Bobby managed a few more bites of cake before Simon scanned his credit card with the waiter to pay the bill. He ushered Bobby out by the shoulder, a habit that reminded Bobby vaguely of Bruce. For a moment, Bobby felt a hot streak of anger towards Bruce: it should be Bruce at his side during this time of childhood ending, not a man that Bobby had known less than a month, but Bruce was completely engrossed with that prosecutor. The last time Bobby had seen Bruce, the man had been as cold as a stranger.

They got into the front of Simon's car. The psychiatrist never let himself be driven anywhere, so they took the front seats of the sleek black car. Bobby huddled in the passenger seat, turning the heat up high.

“I haven't been home hardly at all since dad got sick,” Bobby said. “I don't know. What's the point of going back there?”

“Closure,” Simon said. “Whether your father survives this or not, your life won't be the same after this. You've moved out of your family home, you're CEO of HalloTech and you have a thriving night club. You've already started letting go of your past, but you can't finish doing that without facing it.”

“I don't want to get rid of all of it,” Bobby murmured, staring at his hands. “I was only happy when I was a child. I've had nothing but misery ever since I turned eighteen, except for-for those few weeks that I was with Bruce.”

Bobby watched Simon out of the corner of his eyes. Dr. Hurt was an even-tempered man, but he made no secret of his disdain for Bruce Wayne. Bobby had not yet discovered the root of Simon's hatred, but he had no problem with it. It was cathartic to be with someone that disliked Bruce, given Bobby's frustrations with the man.

“You've staked your entire childhood on Bruce Wayne,” Simon said, his dark eyes glinting with steely anger. “You love the idea of Bruce: the childhood friend that still loves you and still lets you be the boy you were. It's pure fantasy, Bobby, to the point of fetish.”

“What's wrong with a little fetish?” Bobby asked, half-seriously. He playfully nestled his face in the man's neck and licked him. “You're not trying to go vanilla on me, are you?”

“No,” Simon said, irritably pushing Bobby away. “Stop it, you're going to make me crash.”

Bobby went to grope him, but Simon hit the back of his hand sharply. Bobby sighed, restlessly looking out the window. The rain had stopped, but it was still a dark, gloomy day.

“There is nothing wrong with fantasy, so long as a person is aware of a fantasy's falseness,” Simon went on. “You're trying to fit a living, breathing man into your personal, fictional view of him, and that isn't healthy. Your entire childhood fetish is unhealthy. No one's childhood is perfect, no one's is better than their adulthood unless they force themselves to see it that way. You're idealizing youth so much that it's left you emotionally stunted.”

“Am I going to be billed for your time now, Dr. Hurt?”

Simon looked at him, sighed, and said nothing. Bobby shrugged the conversation off and turned on the radio. It was a long drive out to the Halloran property, and the rain had broken out again by the time they were out of Gotham. Bobby dozed off to the music and the patter of raindrops on the car.

A sharp sting in his neck woke Bobby up. He slapped his neck, thinking that he had been stung by an insect. Simon was wrapping a disposable syringe in a plastic wrapper and putting it into the small trash receptacle.

“What the hell is that?” Bobby asked. “What did you give me?”

“It's a mild psychoactive drug,” Simon said. He pressed a gauze pad to the injection spot on Bobby's neck. “I would tell you the name, but it wouldn't mean anything to you. It will help you relax and remember, that's all, Bobby.”

“You could have asked me first,” Bobby muttered. “Jeez.”

Simon wiped the spot off and put a small, circular bandage over it. Bobby's vision blurred and doubled. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, though his mind went on spinning. When Simon helped him out of the car, he saw Bruce's face on the man for a moment.

“Stand still,” Simon said, holding Bobby in place by the shoulders once they were inside the estate's gates. “Close your eyes and think back, Bobby. Think about your home, your precious childhood, your family, your friends. Let it all in.”

Bobby did as he was told, and he was surprised by the assault of memories. He could _feel_ the history of his family home enshrouding him like an old favorite blanket. The smell of the wet earth and falling snow melded with scents of hot chocolate, his mother's perfume, snow-moistened wool coats, the perpetual smell of cigar smoke on his father, the clean, soapy scent that mingled with Bruce's own personal smell. He could see and feel himself trying to make snowballs out of the slushy snow, laughing and running back and forth with Bruce and Thomas Elliot before taking refuge in the warmth of the mansion again.

When Bobby opened his eyes, he saw the mansion as the time capsule that it was. He was in a daze as he went through the sprawling front yard with Simon, seeing ghosts in every corner of the courtyard. His hands were clumsy as he got his keys out and unlocked the front door. It was cold and dark inside the mansion, the emptiness a shock to Bobby, who had expected to see his friends and family going about their daily business.

“No one's home,” Bobby murmured. It was such a shock to him that tears sprung to his eyes. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “No, of course not. No one—No one lives here right now. Anymore. We all left. Everyone went away.”

Simon rubbed his shoulder, and went about turning the lights and heat on. Bobby wandered from the foyer to the library, and into his father's study. For a pleasant moment, he could see Walter behind his desk, smoking his cigar and rustling through classified files. He went around the desk and sat in his father's chair, running his hands over the desk. He picked up a file idly and thumbed through it.

A name caught Bobby's eye: Floyd Lawton. He had a memory of the handsome man sitting on the couch on the other side of the office, cleaning his gun part by part, grinning that wolfish grin of his. Bobby stared at the paper for a long moment, his hazy mind trying to focus on the words. One line made everything abundantly clear: _Floyd Lawton, Codename: Deadshot._

Bobby's mind turned back to the past November, that night Batman ( _No, Bruce,_ Bobby reminded himself, _Bruce is Batman_ ) had snatched him off of the street and used him as a foil for his father's plans to throw the country into war. Bobby felt it all again, the betrayal, the fear … and the way his father had thrown everything he was working for away simply for his son's sake. _So that's why dad had Floyd Lawton here,_ Bobby thought. _He was Deadshot, the assassin dad hired to take out that ex-terrorist. Bruce was with Floyd, which is how Batman knew that Lawton and Deadshot were one in the same. All these secrets, all these secret identities. Am I the only person that's only myself?_

Bobby left the study and wandered to the den. Simon found him there and took him by the arm. He asked Bobby to take him to his room, and they went upstairs. The empty mansion was very quiet and upstairs it was dark. Bobby stuck close to the man, discomfited by the rain hammering down on the roofs and windows

Bobby's room had not been changed much over the years. The furniture was more adult, the toys were mostly cleared out, but the walls were still the same light blue and the model trains he had loved as a boy were still displayed. Bobby left Simon's side and walked through his room, touching old mementos, running a hand over the wall. He touched the carvings in the closet door that marked his growth from two feet to five feet to his final height of five-foot-ten. He had always thought that he would grow taller than that, closer to his father's six-foot-something, but like so many things, his progress had halted at some indefinable point.

“Bobby?”

“I don't want to let it go.” Bobby turned to face Simon, but he saw a completely different man in his place. “I don't _want_ to let any of it go, Bruce.”

“Don't you want to grow up?” Simon asked harshly. He grabbed Bobby by the shoulders and shook him. “For two weeks, you've sat in my office and whined to me about how much you want to be respected, to be your own man. Were you lying to me, or to yourself? Did you mean it?”

“I-I don't know, I … I don't _know_ what I want!”

Simon slapped him across the face, breaking Bobby's illusion of Bruce. He clutched his cheek, stunned, and tried to break free of him. Simon held him with an iron grip, shaking him again.

“What do you want, Bobby?” Simon asked again. “Tell me what you want. You want to be a child forever, don't you? That's all you really want, way deep down inside, isn't it? You're only happy to play the little boy for a strong master, aren't you?”

“No … no, I … I don't know. No, I don't want to be that person!”

“Yes you do, you **do** ,” Simon said, slapping him again. “Your grand attempt at being an independent man is nothing more than a sad submission to Bruce Wayne's desires. You want to be good enough to earn his love and respect, that's all.”

Bobby bowed his head, tears streaming down his face. His face hurt and his brain felt like mush. All he wanted to do was run away, far away from everything and everyone. He wanted to sleep and dream of simpler times. He wanted …

“Bruce Wayne will never love or respect you the way you want,” Simon told him. “He never will, because he sees you for what you really are: a spoiled, frivolous child. He won't buy your little act, and he certainly won't respect anything you do with the Black Glove, or even HalloTech. Bruce Wayne is a self-centered, arrogant man, and he knows that he's better than you. He might have some sentimental attachment to you, but he doesn't love you. Bruce Wayne could _never_ love a weak, sheltered, simpering brat like you.”

“I know that!” Bobby shouted at the man. “You think I don't know? I know that I'm not good enough for him!”

“Then stop pretending that you can be!” Simon snapped. He touched Bobby's warm cheek, tenderly soothing the reddened skin. “Give Wayne up. Give your father up. Keep your childhood, if you want, or shut the door on it if that will make you content. Just tell me, Bobby. Tell me what you want.”

“I just want to … stop trying so hard to figure everything out,” Bobby said wearily. “I hate this … this confusion. I don't know what to do.”

“You want someone to tell you what to do, isn't that right?” Simon asked. He ran a hand through Bobby's hair and led him towards the bed. “You only want to be taken care of and loved, yes?”

“Yes,” Bobby murmured. “Yes, that's right. That's all I ever wanted … from dad, from Bruce … but … they wouldn't waste their time. I wasn't worth it to them.”

Simon sat down on the edge of the bed and sat Bobby on his lap. Bobby leaned his head on the man's shoulder. Simon was gentle now, caressing his arm and back. He removed Bobby's coat and jacket, kissing his forehead and cheeks as he did so.

“You're worth it to me,” Simon said, though his tone was oddly curt. “Let me take care of you, Bobby. Forget everything you think you should be, forget all you've tried to do for Bruce Wayne. Let go and let me be the daddy you've been looking for since your father and your friend abandoned you.”

Bobby sat in his arms for a long while, clinging to the man's strength and comfort. It was lovely to be with a man that expected nothing of him, wanted nothing from him. He did not have to consider every word he spoke, watch every gesture he made, stifle every untoward emotion he felt. He could simply be held tightly as he forgot about board meetings and acts to schedule and interviews to pretend his way through. He was safe at home with someone that wanted him, loved him, would protect him—wasn't that all that he had ever really wanted?

“You're right,” Bobby admitted, chewing his thumbnail. “I never wanted to be anything else. I never wanted to have all these responsibilities. I'm tired of being tired. I'm sick of being miserable. I just want to be happy again.”

“I know, kid, I know,” Simon said, deliberately using Bruce's affectionate term. “Let me make you happy. You want to go back to when you were happy, don't you?”

“Yes, more than anything.”

“Then, go back,” Simon said in his melodically deep voice. He took Bobby's thumbnail out of his mouth, only to guide his thumb itself into the man's mouth. “There. That was how your nail-chewing habit started, isn't it? That's why you predominantly only bite your thumbnails, isn't it?”

It was true, Bobby realized, he had had a thumb-sucking habit in childhood that he had traded for his nail-biting habit in first grade. The drugs in his brain took him back to that time, and further back still. The progress that he had made in the past months degraded and fell away. He did not miss his ego, strangely enough, or even his age; he was at peace here with his memories and these stolen moments of a recaptured childhood.

Simon smiled as he saw Bobby's eyes glaze over and his thumb remain in his mouth. Bruce Wayne should have known better than to have let himself love such a weak child, but his mistake was Simon's opportunity. Simon lay Bobby back on the bed, where the young man curled up in a fetal position. Though Bobby was only a means to an end, Simon had to admit that he was quite an enticing means with his boy's face, man's body, and all that sad, desperate need. Simon stroked his hair at the hairline, caressing his soft skin, looking into his saucer-like brown eyes. Then he continued undressing him, as Bobby lay lost in his chemically induced regression.

 _I've taken Wayne's little lover, and it's only the start,_ Simon thought. He squeezed the man's ample buttocks as he pulled his pants off. _I'll strip down and break everything and everyone that Bruce Wayne cares about. He has no idea the kind of hell that I'm preparing for him yet, but he will know once he sees the wreck I've made of his old friend._

Bobby was crying soundlessly from some memory. Simon took off his own coat, jacket, and shoes, then climbed into the bed beside him. He pulled the naked, shaking man into his arms and held him close. He kissed Bobby chastely, soothing him with wordless sounds and caresses.

“There, there, my boy,” he murmured. “Sweet boy, it's all right now. You're safe. You're safe with me.”

“Bruce?”

“No.” Simon gave his bottom a slap and tilted his face up to his own by the chin. “ _No_. I'm not Bruce Wayne. You know me, Robert. Look at me.”

Bobby whimpered uncertainly. Simon gave him another spank.

“You know me,” he said. “Tell me.”

“Simon,” Bobby whispered. He frowned. “You're Simon … Dr. Hurt. You're my therapist. You're my … lover. Simon. You're Simon … ”

“That's right, Bobby,” Simon said lazily. “Don't you ever call me Bruce again, hm?”

“No, you're not Bruce,” Bobby said. He sighed in relief. “You're _not_ Bruce.”

“No. No, I'm not. I'm most certainly not Bruce Wayne.”

* * *

[February 13, 2015]

Selina Kyle was in a mood. The Falcone family had locked itself up tight in the apartment building they owned that substituted for an impenetrable fortress. Since Harvey Dent's return from death and the arrest of Sal Maroni, Carmine had been careful to the point of paranoia. With Valentine's Day approaching, Carmine had withdrawn with all his people, closing ranks in hopes to deter Holiday. Falcone had even ignored losing a substantial amount of dirty money to the burglar known as Catwoman.

Selina had been contemplating helping the Batman with his war on the crime families, but he had mysteriously vanished. Sitting in the Black Glove with a drink, Selina thought back on the night the Riddler had accused Bruce Wayne of being Batman. She had long suspected the same thing, and despite Batman's sighting while Bruce was at the club, she still suspected it.

 _That Riddler is not as clever as he thinks he is,_ Selina thought, sipping her drink. She looked at the stage where it had all gone down, though it was currently occupied by a rock band playing live. _There are facial prosthetics, robotic doubles, all kinds of ways that Batman could have been sighted while Bruce Wayne was here. He's a billionaire, if anyone could pull off being in two places at once, it's him. Bruce could still be Batman._

 _Not that it matters,_ Selina thought bitterly. _Bruce and Batman have disappeared, coincidentally at the same time. Bruce is enraptured with that man, Luis Castell, out of the blue … and who knows where Batman is, if he isn't in the exact same place as Bruce. But if Bruce is Batman, how could he give it all up for one man? How could he just quit his crusade over something so tenuous as love? What the hell is going on with Batman? What the hell is wrong with Bruce Wayne?_

“Men are so unreliable,” Selina commented to her old friend, Holly Robinson.

“I, er, wouldn't know about that,” Holly said with a smirk.

“You're lucky,” Selina said. “They're much more trouble than they're worth. Oh, speak of the devil … one of them, anyway.”

Selina slipped down from the bar stool and crossed the dance floor to greet Bobby Halloran. That young man had been behaving strangely lately, as well, clinging to his therapist and lover Simon Hurt as if for dear life. Selina wondered if there was something in the water that only affected the male population in Gotham, as if they needed any more reason to be generally insane.

“What is it?” Bobby asked, eyeing Selina suspiciously. He looked at everyone that way lately, the way a young child looks at adults. She could tell by his pupils that he was on some narcotic.

“I was wondering if you've seen Bruce lately,” Selina said. “He hasn't been around much, has he?”

Bobby winced at the name, and Selina caught a blaze of anger in Simon's eyes. Bobby clutched the man's hand in his own tightly.

“No, I don't know where Br—where _he_ is,” Bobby said sullenly. “I'm not his keeper.”

Selina was surprised by the hostility; whatever else he was, Bobby was normally an amiable guy. She did not stay around to argue with him. She had gotten what she wanted from Bobby: a reason to seek out Bruce Wayne.

 _Curiosity won't kill this cat,_ Selina thought as she drove out to Wayne Manor. _I need to know if Bruce is Batman or not. He won't easily let that secret out, but I'll be able to tell the truth for myself if I get close enough to him. All I need is a hint._

Selina should have been surprised by Bruce greeting her with the same hostile suspicion that Bobby had, but somehow she had expected it. Bruce being Bruce, he covered his impatience with politeness even now.

“Selina,” he said, eyebrows raised. “This is a surprise. What brings you all the way out here tonight?”

“I was wondering if you had seen Bobby recently.”

“No, I haven't. We did break up a while ago, Selina,” Bruce explained in the tone of a teacher explaining a complex matter to a slow student. “Bobby and I don't have anything to do with each other. Why?”

“Because he's acting strangely,” Selina said. “I thought you would want to know that your ex-boyfriend is stoned out of his mind and acting like Simon Hurt's personal bitch.”

“Bobby can do whatever he wants,” Bruce said, backing into the house and moving to close the door. “If that's all—”

“No, that's not all,” Selina said, holding the door open. “Bobby is your friend, Bruce. Don't you even care? Who knows what that freak Dr. Hurt has done to him?”

“I don't know, and I don't care,” Bruce said. “Bobby is a grown man, even if he is an immature, air-headed, self-centered one. He can make his own choices, live his own life. Why should I care, Selina? Why do _you_ care?”

“I've grown fond of the kid,” Selina said. It was meant as a lie, but she thought there might be some truth in it. “And I thought that we were starting to become friends.”

“We're not friends, Selina.”

“Bobby is a mutual friend, at least,” Selina argued. “I don't want to see him hurt, and you shouldn't want that, either. Can I at least come in?”

Bruce grudgingly invited her in. They stood drinking in the den for a minute. Bruce tapped his fingers on his glass impatiently, watching the clock.

“Listen, Selina, I can tell that you're worried about Bobby,” Bruce said. “He does stupid things, puts himself in trouble, but he always knows when to run away before he's seriously hurt. He's a coward, he won't let anyone give him anything more than a few S&M-related bruises.”

“You're not even the slightest bit concerned?”

“Life is too short to waste babysitting adults,” Bruce said. “I tried to help Bobby, I tried like hell, but he threw me away the moment he found an excuse to. He saw me at my best and it wasn't good enough for him.”

“At your best?”

“He knew my secrets, he saw me more clearly than anyone has in a long time,” Bruce said bitterly. “I gave Bobby all of that, and he threw it in my face and left me alone. Fortunately, it was the best thing that he ever did for me. He left me, and I found Luis.”

“The ADA?” Selina said. “I would have thought you would have gone for the real prize: DA Dent. He is alive, after all, and a widower, the poor man. There have been rumors of his being bisexual, and I always thought there was a spark between you two.”

“Harvey Dent is too complicated,” Bruce said. “He pretends to be strong, but he's broken. Luis isn't needy or damaged. He's a good man, and he won't disappoint me. I love him. I love him more than I've ever loved anyone.”

Selina froze, staring at Bruce. When he spoke of loving Luis Castell, she saw a familiar green glint over his blue eyes. She kept her face carefully neutral and set her glass down on the dry bar. _Oh hell,_ she thought. _I've seen this before. It can only be the work of one woman: Poison Ivy. So she's playing the matchmaker now? Wonderful._

Luis Castell himself entered the den. He eyed Selina warily as Bruce came over to him and kissed him fervently.

“Ms. Kyle,” Luis greeted her politely, shaking her hand. “Excuse me. I didn't know we had company.”

“Obviously not.”

“What do you m—oh!”

Selina took Luis by the throat. Luis dropped his glass and it shattered on the floor. Bruce moved towards them, but Luis waved him back with a hand.

“I've seen this before,” Selina hissed at Luis. “What did you do to Bruce?”

“I haven't done anything!” Luis exclaimed. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“Oh yes you do,” Selina said. “The green bulging veins, the change of eye color, the relentless and tasteless love: you went to Poison Ivy, didn't you? Did you get her to make a special love potion for you? A mass market version of her passion juice? Hm? What did you _do_ , Luis?”

“It wasn't my fault,” Luis moaned, wincing as Selina's long fingernails dug into his neck. “I was desperate, I only wanted someone on my side! I-I needed him! Oh God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Selina did not have time to ponder Luis's seemingly genuine remorse. Bruce pulled Luis out of her grasp and protectively stepped in front of him. Luis looked at the two, and then ran. Selina heard the front doors slamming open and then shut. She tried to run around Bruce, but he grabbed her and threw her across the room. She hit the floor hard. Bruce was fast as he crossed the room to her, and he stepped directly on the spot where Tom Blake had stabbed her two months ago. The spot was still weakened, and she growled in pain.

 _He knew,_ she thought despite the discomfort. She rolled away from Bruce, desperately trying to get distance between them. _He knew where I was injured. Only Batman could have known that._

Selina got to her feet and faced Bruce. He grinned, a hard and terrible expression. His eyes glowed unnaturally green, and his black hair fell around his face wildly.

“So,” Bruce said, “The cat bears her claws.”

“And the bat spreads his wings.”

Selina went at him with all her speed, but Bruce blocked or avoided every strike. For such a large man, he was impossibly fast, matching her speed despite his extra weight. Selina had no doubts as to Batman's identity now: only one person moved like that in Gotham.

 _I'll never match him,_ Selina realized. She scowled, looking around the room desperately for a weapon. _With my whip and an open space, maybe, but in here, dressed like this, without anything but my bare hands it's hopeless._

Alfred came in after Selina knocked over a large, heavy bookshelf to deter Bruce. His eyes went wide when he saw the scene unfolding. Bruce grabbed her by the wrists and she struggled with him. Alfred drew his gun and aimed it at Selina, though she saw no intention to shoot in the man's eyes.

“Bruce isn't himself!” Selina told the butler desperately. Bruce's hand wrapped around her neck and she could barely breathe enough to finish, “It's … poison … Castell … Castell got something from Poison Ivy! His eyes! Look at his eyes!”

Alfred saw, and Selina thanked her nine lives that he trusted her. Alfred shot his gun off at Bruce, only close enough to graze him. It was enough to distract Bruce and give Selina her chance. She drew one long nail across Bruce's wrist, deeply enough to sever the artery there. He released her and she ran to Alfred's side. Alfred held the gun on Bruce, though it pained him to do so.

“The poison has taken root in his system, but he'll bleed it out,” Selina said. “Once it's subsided enough, you can stitch him up. He should be fine.”

“Good Lord,” Alfred breathed as he watched Bruce bleed green and red fluid. “You're saying that Luis Castell did this? And I thought that Master Bruce had finally found such a nice man.”

Bruce was weakened by blood loss and the leaking poison dulled his rage. He slumped onto the floor, back against the sofa, clutching his wrist. Neither Alfred or Selina dared approach him just yet.

“Yes,” Selina answered Alfred's inquiry. “He ran away, probably halfway to Gotham by now.”

“I knew that Master Bruce had become inordinately enamored with the man, but I never suspected this,” Alfred said. “That bastard!”

“Maybe,” Selina said, thinking of the desperation in Luis's eyes. “Or maybe he had his reasons.”

“I can't see any reason to chemically seduce someone in such a tawdry, insidious manner, Ms. Kyle,” Alfred said stiffly. He crossed the room to fetch a medical kit. “And here I was thinking that Master Bruce would at least be immune to Ms. Isley's devices.”

“Pamela has a poison for everyone,” Selina said. “But how could a mere ADA afford to get something like that from her? And to what purpose? He hasn't taken money from Bruce? Company security protocols, information, anything?”

“No,” Alfred had to admit. He knelt beside Bruce and began to clean up his wounded wrist. Bruce had passed out. “Mr. Castell has been very polite and kind, soft-spoken and owning more class than Master Bruce's usual type. He was a bit high-strung, nervous, but not more than any professional in the city. I never should have thought that he would do such a thing.”

Selina considered this as she stood before a mirror to fix her hair and clothes. Bruce woke up with a grunt of pain as Alfred was cleaning the gash in his arm. His eyes were clear, though tired.

“Alfred? What happened?”

“Much and more, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “Before anything, I believe you owe Ms. Kyle a spot of gratitude.”

Bruce looked over Alfred's shoulder at Selina. She turned to him, smirking a little in amusement.

“Er, thank you, Selina,” Bruce said. He looked at Alfred. “What am I thanking her for, exactly?”

Selina took up the story of Luis's manipulation. By the time she had finished, Alfred had brought them tea. They sat on the sofa together over the steaming cups, both disheveled but mostly unharmed.

“I can't believe it,” Bruce said ruefully. “I was completely convinced that I was in love, that I had finally found enough happiness to give everything up for. It felt real, it felt authentic … _too_ authentic, now that I think about it. But at the time, I was … ”

“It's what Ivy does,” Selina said. “She must have changed a few things to make a poison that would attract you to Luis. Something for everyone.”

“Not for long,” Bruce murmured darkly.

“Oh?” Selina inquired. “And how do you intend to stop her?”

“Never mind,” Bruce said. “Are you all right? I didn't hurt you, did I? I saw you limping.”

“Old injury.”

Selina saw the recognition in Bruce's eyes, the memory of the night he had stopped her from killing Thomas Blake. He hid it so quickly that it was fleeting as a ripple over water, but Selina caught it. There was no reason to torment the man with her knowledge, so Selina said nothing; it was more than enough to _know_.

“I'm sorry all the same,” Bruce said. “I can't thank you enough for freeing me from that poison. If you hadn't come out here—Er, why _did_ you come out here?”

“Your friend Bobby Halloran,” Selina said. “He's latched onto this alternative therapy psychiatrist, Simon Hurt. He's been acting strangely, and he's high on something or other again. I thought you might want to have a talk with him. When you started telling me that you were over Bobby and he was free to live his shallow, reckless, stupid life, I was … concerned.”

“I said all that?”

“I'm paraphrasing, but you get the gist,” Selina said. “Don't worry, it wasn't you speaking, it was the poison. False love is always the most selfish.”

“You've been paying more attention to me than I realized,” Bruce said. “Bobby is frustrating, I very well might have been tired of—”

“Babysitting him, you said.”

“Exactly.”

“You're not the type to forget your loved ones,” Selina said. “You don't see many people like that in Gotham, that's why I noticed. You're a good man, Bruce.”

“You hardly know me.”

“I know enough.”

Bruce was disconcerted by her secretive smile, but he said nothing. Alfred had assured him that he had not spoken of Batman to Luis, even in the throes of false passion; thankfully, Bruce had given up his alter ego to spend all his time with Luis. Selina had always seemed on the verge of discovering his secret, and even after his stunt at The Black Glove to fool the Riddler, her suspicions had not died. She did not seem threatening, though, merely curious.

“Anyway, I suppose I should go,” Selina said. “I drove straight out here from The Black Glove, and I haven't eaten. I should—”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Oh, Bruce, if only you meant more than that,” Selina laughed. “Yes, though, I would love to have dinner with you. I wouldn't want to put poor Alfred out, though. I think I gave him quite a fright earlier.”

“No worse a fright than if I had done something unspeakable under that poison's influence,” Bruce assured her. “Alfred and I both owe you more than a simple dinner. Please, join me.”

“Thank you, I will.”


	7. The Empire Is Dead, Long Live the Empire

[February 14, 2015]

Carla Viti was a plump, comfortable-looking woman whose round face used to give her a cheery look. Since losing her son, Johnny Viti, last Halloween, anger and drink had taken its toll upon the woman: her face was pale and doughy rather than robust, deep scowl lines had been etched at the corners of her darkly-painted lips, and her big brown eyes were glossy from drunkenness. The woman scowled at her old face in the mirror after she made it up as best as she could, blaming Carmine for it. She blamed Carmine for her son's death, for her sorrow, for her pain, and why shouldn't she? All of this was her brother's fault, for being such a soft, stupid man.

 _I don't run things like this in Chicago,_ Carla thought as she struggled her girth into black slacks. She buttoned them up and slipped on a crisp but plain white shirt. She was in no mood for the soft fabrics and furs that she normally attired herself with. _The Falcone name is still strong in Chicago, and why? Because of me, that's why! Always been just a woman, just Carmine's sister—ha! Like Sofia is just his little girl? Please! The Falcone women have always had more balls than the men. They're too used to being perceived as strong, that's it. They're spoiled by the respect they think that dangling thing between their legs commands. Well, I have news for them, the poor things: there are a lot of men in the world now, and most of them are meaner, smarter, and hungrier than them! My Johnny was never spoiled, he knew he had to fight for his strength and the boy **fought** , God rest his soul._

Carla wiped a tear delicately from the corner of her eye, so as not to smudge her mascara. She took a deep breath and poured herself a glass of the first bottle that came to hand at her bar cart. Johnny was her only son, and what a son he had been: big, strong, maybe not too bright but he made up for that with his loyalty. She would never forgive her brother for letting him be killed by that Holiday freak, or for letting that same freak run around for so long. True, Carmine had lost a son by now too, but that did not even the scales, that was only another unnecessary tragedy.

Carla drove herself through Gotham impatiently. She never liked Chicago, ever since marrying a local boss out there to bring a new ally to the expanding Falcone family way back when. Yet upon returning to Gotham, Carla had been shocked to find that it was dirtier and _eviler_ than Chicago could ever aspire to be. Corruption was rampant in Chicago (which was good for her business interests) and the people were gun-crazy, but there was an extra layer of malice in Gotham's denizens. The criminals in Gotham did not follow any rules, did not have a single shred of respect, they were like animals. Violence was a business, like any other, and it should be regulated, taxed, controlled by cause and effect, not unleashed like the wrath of God on the whims of circus freaks like the Joker and this Holiday.

_(Bam!)_

_(Bam!)_

Carla had been doing a lot of shooting lately. She was in the basement shooting range her brother's people used for practice at one of Carmine's gentleman's clubs. She went here almost every day, imagining that the paper target was Holiday. Sometimes she saw Carmine in the faceless outline, as well.

“Carla.”

Carla did not turn around, thinking that she might shoot Carmine if she saw his face in actuality.

“Carmine.”

_(Bam!)_

“Why are you doing this, Carla?” Carmine asked, putting a hand on his sister's shoulder. “Carla, look at me.”

Carla set the gun down. Carmine picked it up.

“Are you sick in the head, Carla?” Carmine asked, not unkindly. “Why would you use this gun?”

Carla snatched the .22 caliber pistol away from him.

“Because I am going to find this Holiday _mafankulo_ and kill him with it,” Carla said. She lifted the gun up before her face, the smell of smoke still wafting from it. “I am going to shoot Holiday the way he shot my son.”

“Carla—”

“What? Should I just sit around and do nothing, Carmine?” Carla asked furiously. “Should I let all of our people be picked off one by one? Should I do _nothing_ , like you are?”

“Holiday is not … _a paper target_!” Carmine shouted with uncharacteristic fury. He slammed a fist down on the counter. “Do you think that if I had that son-of-a-bitch in front of me, I wouldn't kill him? I would strip a piece of him off for each man I've lost, and a dozen more for my Alberto! Do you think that I wouldn't do something if I could?”

“You CAN!” Carla shouted up at her much taller brother. She gave him a hearty shove. “You can, you can act like a man, like papa always told you, Carmine! Do you need Holiday wrapped up like a neat little present? FIGHT BACK!”

“I AM!”

Their shouts echoed around the basement, and the silence that followed was fraught with anger. Carmine drew a breath to collect himself, straightening his jacket and smoothing back his hair.

“I was going to hit Maroni before they arrested him,” Carmine said. “It has to be his people behind this thing. Without Sal, they're weak now. I'll strike as soon as this new holiday is over. But tonight, Carla, _mia sorella_ … stay inside tonight. Please. Come to the apartment with Sofia and I. Let us be safe.”

“Let us hide from Holiday, you mean,” Carla said bitterly, shaking him off. “What kind of man are you?”

“A man that has overestimated his empire,” Carmine admitted. “Gotham City has gotten away from me, I admit. I thought that the rational people could hold this place together. We have a rule, even Sal follows it: no freaks. But if Sal has created this Holiday menace, then the order has fallen. Evolve or die, isn't that what they say?”

“What are _you_ saying, Carmine?”

“I'm saying that if striking Maroni's people doesn't work, then perhaps it may be time to consider another strategy,” Carmine said. “Do not worry, sister. I will do whatever I must to end this Holiday menace, even if it means fighting fire with fire.”

“You do that, Carmine,” Carla said. “I don't care if you have to burn the city down. You _do_ it.”

* * *

Luis Castell was a wreck. After being exposed by Selina Kyle, he had driven as fast as he could to Gotham City. Panicking at the idea of having an enemy as powerful as Bruce Wayne, Luis had taken what he could from his brownstone and run to the Falcone organization. He had been locked in an abandoned tenement building for a day now, with only an old mattress, radio, and a bathroom he felt he should don a biohazard suit before entering.

 _All I've accomplished, all I've worked for, and I end up like this,_ Luis thought miserably, watching roaches crawl up the opposite wall. _I used a good man, an innocent man that only wants to better Gotham, and for what? To appease the goddamn Falcone family! I say it's to save my parents, but who am I kidding? They won't let my parents live as witnesses to their crimes. They won't let me live once my usefulness dries up. We're all already dead, for no more reason than that Falcone needed a new tool. I should have let them kill my parents and I before letting it go this far. I would be dead and that terrifies me, but I'd rather have died a decent man than become this rat._

The door opened. Luis was hugging his knees to his chest, but he lifted his face from his arms now. Sofia Gigante blocked most of the sunlight dully filtering into the room, her shoes clomping loudly on the old floorboards. Luis did not stand, did not move. Sofia knelt before him, looking like a gorilla hunching next to a small dog.

“You're not looking yourself, Luis,” Sofia said, still using the accent on his name mockingly. “What happened?”

Luis stared at her ugly face, washes of hatred flowing through him dully. He had a very clear vision of taking a sharp object and putting it through her eye before using it to slice her throat from ear to ear. He thought of his mother, so strong but so warm, and wondered how a woman could be colder than so many men. It was a stupid thing to think, he knew, but there was a deeply ingrained expectation of a maternal instinct, some spark of warmth that Luis knew men were lacking. There was none of it in Sofia, however, not a shred of sympathy or mercy. It had nothing to do with gender, Luis realized, but simple, basic humanity. There was nothing _human_ in Sofia's eyes when she looked at him.

Sofia was merely amused. She had been taught very early on what made a man, and Luis had none of the masculine stuff in him. She had targeted Luis simply because of what he was: a pompous, righteous idiot who had more interest in his designer suits than helping his people, a so-called man that did not even have the fortitude to desire a woman properly.

 _I was never much of a woman,_ Sofia thought, _but I am still a woman. I'm not one of those butch whores that is too cowardly to find a man. If I could do that much, this mewling little coward has no excuse to be such a bitch._

“I did what I could with Bruce Wayne,” Luis said. “What can I say? He got tired of me. You know how these entitled heirs are.”

Sofia had to allow that much was true. Still, she wrapped a hand around Luis's throat, taking a perverse pleasure in seeing the man's eyes widen in fear. He grabbed her hand, but both of his hands barely covered her own.

“And all the money you spent trying to seduce him?” Sofia asked. “Did my family get nothing for that cost?”

“ _Urk—_ no,” Luis gasped. “No, he signed it! [Cough] Bruce signed the bank papers! He retracted his vote!”

Sofia let him go. Luis fell to his knees, rubbing his throat and choking.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Luis rasped. He reached into the pockets of the coat he had hung on a broken radiator and tossed a stack of papers at her. “He signed them the day before he decided that he had had enough of me. I left before he could take them back. Look at the last page, you'll see, that's his signature. Your father will be able to have his seat on the bank's board now, Bruce Wayne was the only one holding the others against him.”

Sofia read through the documents and spent a minute staring at Wayne's signature. She folded them and put them in her own pocket.

“All right, Luis, that's a start.”

“A _start_?” Luis exclaimed. “Are you kidding me? Bruce Wayne will be furious at me for getting that signature out of him! The money I spent, that was because I _drugged_ him! I manipulated him! HIM! The most powerful man in Gotham! He'll be after me! Why do you think I'm here?”

“So what?” Sofia asked. “You think this is enough? You think I'm done with you?”

“I can't give you anything else,” Luis said. “Wayne will probably file charges against me. I called the DA's office to take emergency leave, but I'm finished in Gotham. I'm done.”

“What can Wayne prove?” Sofia shrugged. “You're fine.”

“I can't let him find me,” Luis stressed. He hated himself for it, but the pleas poured out of his mouth before he could stop them, “Please, Ms. Falcone, please! Let my parents go. I'll go with them, we'll leave the country.”

Sofia looked at him. It was a good time to kill the ADA and his parents, to make a clean break. She knew that Luis despised her, and she did not blame him for it. The longer an enemy lived, the greater his threat to you became. Yet despite her derision of the man, Sofia almost sympathized with him. Even now at his lowest, Luis held his face up, kept his eyes clear and cold, tried to cling to some semblance of pride. She thought that if it were only his own life at stake, he would defiantly let his pride lead him to an honorable end. Seizing his parents had been a stroke of brilliance, the only weak spot that Luis would give up even pride to protect.

“Not yet.”

Luis opened his mouth, then closed it. He sat back, hugging his knees tightly as rage blazed in his eyes. Sofia enjoyed seeing him react, she understood now why cats toyed with mice before eating them. If she were not in love with Sal Maroni, she thought she might have enjoyed batting Luis about in her bed. She could never respect him, but he was attractive, and the idea of dominating a man sometimes tickled her imagination …

“You don't have any of that pheromone poison in you now, do you, Luis?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondering,” Sofia said. She stood. “Come on. Stand up. Let's get you out of here.”

“Why?” Luis asked suspiciously. “Where are we going?”

“To my father's building,” Sofia said. “I might have a use for you again. Until then, you'll lie low with our people.”

Luis tried to work up the nerve to make a stand and force her to kill him, but he could not. It looked so easy in fiction, to put your honor and faith about you like armor and walk willingly into death. In reality, Luis's internal organs were twisting painfully and his heart was racing at an unhealthy pace, his skin had broken out into a cold sweat, and fear had seized every nerve ending in his body. Luis was mentally ready to die, but his body was screaming out for more life: his lungs sucked down air in a pant, his stomach cried out for food, his heart ached with the ridiculous desires to see daylight or rain or any element that would tether him to the living world. He wanted to _live_ , and nothing else seemed quite so important as that.

How easy it had been to stand up to criminals when they were chained and subdued in the courtroom. How easy it was to say that he did not care about the death threats when no one had acted upon them. Was morality so thin that it evaporated in the face of survival? In the end, were humans nothing more than animals scrabbling at the gates of life, snapping at each other for crumbs of security?

 _Maybe all those boys I grew up with were right,_ Luis thought as he submissively trailed after Sofia. _The boys that swore to get power through the barrel of a gun, the thugs and the gangsters and all of them … were they right? I thought that they were chasing false idols, that morality and respect were the only true paths out of the self-defeating spiral of urban Darwinism. They said I snubbed them, and maybe I did. I did think I was somehow better, more knowing, more decent. But I'm nothing. Good men are false coin in Gotham City._

Luis reached into Sofia's coat on the street. He took the gun from her holster, clicked off the safety, and put it to his temple. Sofia looked mildly impressed—before she elbowed him in the forehead and knocked him out.

“At least he tried,” Sofia told the Falcone thugs standing in front of her car. “That's something, right?”

Sofia picked Luis up herself, threw him in the car, and shut herself in. She shook her head at the unconscious man, ruffling his silky black hair a little, thumbing some blood off the gash his fall to the pavement had cut into his forehead. She was reminded suddenly of her younger brother, Alberto, who had always been smaller than her.

Sofia turned her face to the window, though her hand absently stroked Luis's hair. She had not mourned her brother as a woman should, throwing herself into plotting revenge against Holiday and her organization's machinations. She would not mourn now, would not even let herself cry, but she felt the hole burrowing deep into her heart. She had held Alberto like this when they were very young, before her father had forbidden her from babying him. It was maudlin, holding this stranger and thinking of her brother, but here she was.

 _All we did was try to protect Alberto, the way Luis's parents left their country to protect him,_ Sofia thought. _Both boys are going to end up dead in the same river, though. It's a cold world, a cold, hard world._

* * *

Bruce Wayne did not intend to let the Holiday killer strike again on Valentine's Day. He woke up early and made preparations for the day and night in the Cave over breakfast. He lamented the two weeks that Luis had cost him, but he had no time to confront the ADA over that today. Despite his many personal concerns, he had minimal time to deal with them if he wanted the time to catch Holiday.

One personal matter did hold his attention. He looked up Bobby's address in Gotham and had Alfred drive him to the building. He was buzzed up by his friend. Bobby's loft took up the entire top floor of the renovated old building, looking imperiously out at the city without causing the vertigo that the newer skyscrapers did. The apartment was decorated tastefully, modern with touches of Art Deco and using the same sparse palette that the Black Glove used.

The shower in one of the bathrooms was running, but Bobby appeared from the bedroom. He was rubbing his eyes with a hand, apparently having just woken up, and wore only a rather short dark purple silk robe. The sight of his ex-lover nearly naked made Bruce's lonely plans for Valentine's Day feel emptier than they already did.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Bobby grumbled, stomping over to the kitchen. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Bruce said. “About this man you're seeing, Simon Hurt.”

“What? Daddy Bruce doesn't approve?” Bobby scowled as he slammed cabinet doors open and close in his quest to make coffee. “Save it, Bruce, I don't want to hear it.”

“Simon Hurt didn't exist ten years ago,” Bruce said. “It's an alias, a false identity. I couldn't find anything about who he was or where he came from.”

“He isn't the first mysterious man I fell for,” Bobby said. He met Bruce's eyes. “Or the first liar.”

“So it's fine for Dr. Hurt to lie to you for no reason at all, but not for me to keep a few secrets to protect you?”

“Simon told me that he was an orphan, all right?” Bobby said. “He doesn't like to talk about his past because no one wanted him, no one took him in. He changed his name to make a new start for himself after graduating from college. He didn't lie to me about his past.”

“Then who was he?” Bruce asked. “Before?”

“Who cares?” Bobby shrugged. “I'm with him _now_ , and I'm happy with him. I'm sorry if you can't stand to see me happier with him than I was with you, but you're just going to have to deal.”

Bruce turned him to himself by the arm. Bobby glowered at him sullenly, but he did not resist. Bruce looked at his pupils, then lifted up the back corner of his robe. His pupils were contracted, and Bruce could see the distinctive linear welts of a belting on his upper thigh.

“ _Are you_ happy, Bobby?” Bruce asked. “Or are you just staying too high to feel again?”

Bobby hit him off and finished battling his espresso machine to get a cup. He did not offer Bruce anything.

“You were doing well the last time I saw you,” Bruce said. “You had gotten HalloTech under control and you were running the Black Glove. What happened to you?”

“What happened? _What happened_?” Bobby echoed incredulously. “I watched my father put himself into cryogenic sleep to preserve his life, if it even can be preserved! I had to lose the last piece of family that I had, and where were you, Bruce? Where were you?”

Bobby slammed down his cup so hard that Bruce was surprised that it didn't shatter. There was so much anger and hatred in his eyes that Bruce scarcely recognized his friend. There was something off about him, an immaturity that went beyond even his usual.

“You've always left me when I needed you the most,” Bobby said. “You're just like mom and dad, you're never there when I need you!”

“Bobby, calm down,” Bruce said uneasily. “I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I didn't know.”

“Well you should have!” Bobby shouted at him. “You should have, Bruce. You know everything, right? You can find out anything! You just didn't bother to check on me.”

“I'm here now.”

“I don't want you here now,” Bobby said. “My life has nothing to do with you. I don't want to see you anymore.”

“Robert—”

“Go away!” Bobby shouted. “I don't care what you think about me or my life anymore, Bruce. I just want you to leave me alone.”

Simon Hurt had come out of the bathroom, fully bathed and dressed in a smart slate gray suit. He crossed the open loft to the kitchen and put a hand on Bobby's shoulder. He seemed protective enough of Bobby, but Bruce did not trust the inexplicable hatred that flashed in Simon's eyes when he met Bruce's gaze.

“Are you all right?” Simon asked.

“No,” Bobby said, gripping the man's arm. “I don't know why I let him up. I'm sorry.”

“I think you should leave,” Simon told Bruce.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Bruce said coldly. “What are you giving my friend? He's stoned almost out of his mind, isn't he?”

“Bobby is in therapy with me, and his prescriptions are none of your business,” Simon said, equally cold. “He's a grown man, he doesn't need your approval.”

“He isn't acting like a grown man,” Bruce said. “What are you giving him?”

“What's the matter, Wayne?” Simon asked, possessively holding Bobby to his side. “He can play the child for you, but not for me?”

“All I've ever done is protect him,” Bruce said. He turned to Bobby. “You _know_ that, Robert.”

“All I know is that you've hurt me, again and again,” Bobby said. “Go away, Bruce. I don't want to see you. I'm tired of being controlled and hurt by you. I don't love you anymore, I … I hate you. I hate you for what you've done to me.”

“How long are you going to use me as an excuse to ruin your own life?” Bruce asked him. “You can't keep blaming your mother, your father, me, anyone that you can! _You're_ choosing to live like this, no one's making that choice for you, no one is forcing you to be anything that you don't want to be.”

“Fine, so it's my choice,” Bobby said. “If you have any bit of respect for me, if you ever cared about me at all, you'll at least respect that.”

Not having the time or patience to go around in the circles Bobby dragged every argument through, Bruce turned to Simon. It took a great deal of restraint not to tear his hands off of Bobby and punch the smug smile off of his face.

“He's a recovering addict, he shouldn't be medicated,” Bruce told Simon. “I don't care if it is my business or not, if you hurt him, I'll end you.”

“He'll never hurt me the way you have,” Bobby murmured. “You're the only one that could ever mess me up that much, Bruce.”

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you did,” Bobby said hollowly. He turned his face from Bruce, repeating softly, “You did.”

“I'm not going to tell you what to do with your life, Bobby,” Bruce told him. “Just think about the son your father will want to see when he wakes up again.”

Bobby looked uncertain for the first time. Though it pained him to do so, Bruce left him. Bobby had always been a needy boy, and he had a tendency to latch onto men with strength, even if they were arrogant. Bruce did not feel that he even had much right left to judge him, given the fact that he also had a tendency to treat his friend like a two-year-old at times. Simon was unprofessional at best, and if he was using illegal treatments, then Bruce would ruin him—later. For the moment, Bobby needed time to recover from temporarily (perhaps) losing his father, and Bruce needed time to find Holiday.

“Shall I drive you elsewhere, sir?” Alfred asked at the car.

“No,” Bruce said. “Take the rest of the day off, Alfred. I'm going to call the other car around and suit up.”

“So early, sir?”

“It isn't early,” Bruce said grimly. “I only hope that it isn't too late.”

* * *

“I'm sick of him!”

Bobby put his espresso cup out of its misery finally by flinging it across the kitchen. It hit the white marble counter and shattered. Simon rubbed his temple, trying not to let a headache overcome him. He had succeeded perhaps too well in regressing Bobby to a manageable state of immaturity, and he was growing tired of the man's histrionics.

“Forget Bruce Wayne,” Simon said, taking up a dish towel to clean up the glass. “He only has the power to upset you if you _give_ him that power. You never should have let him up.”

Bobby went to get more coffee, but Simon stopped him. He brought him to the kitchen island and sat him on a stool, poured him a glass of water. When he was sure that Bobby was not going to smash this glass, Simon pressed a pill into Bobby's hand. Bobby tossed the pill into his mouth and washed it down.

“Come on, let's get you together,” Simon said, taking him by the hand. “You have that meeting at the Black Glove today, remember?”

Bobby was still a little distracted by the unexpected visit from Bruce, but he let it go for the moment. Whatever the pill had been, it soon left him in a pleasantly numb state. Simon got him into a shower and helped him dress.

“I want you to come with me,” Bobby said, brushing his thick brown hair back from his face. “You already know Cobblepot. I want you involved in our plans.”

“I never intended not to be.”

Bobby gave him a quizzical frown, but Simon only smiled at him. Shrugging the remark off, Bobby followed Simon out of the loft. They got into Simon's car and made the short drive down to the club.

Bobby hated it when the club was empty and quiet, and he saw that he was not the only one. His friends had music beating through the place, quieter than it played when the place was open but loud enough to give the place life. Roman Sionis was cuddling with his model girlfriend Circe on a lounge sofa, barely noticing Bobby's arrival. Oswald Cobblepot was at the table beside them, fondling a blonde's leg while he discussed things with a few of his lieutenants. Victor Zsasz was at the bar, drinking despite the early hour. Anton Knight was on the dance floor with his adopted sister, showing her around a few lethal martial arts moves.

“Guys, I thought I told you this wasn't a gym,” Bobby called over.

“No, it's better,” Natalia said cheerfully. She had her long black hair tied up and wore black athletic gear. She turned to the standing punching bag that they had brought onto the floor.

“Just make sure that thing is out of here before we open tonight,” Bobby said. “The last thing we need is a dance-off turning into Mortal Kombat.”

Soon, everyone was settled at a VIP table. It took some persuading and made Roman unhappy, but Bobby suggested that Circe leave, and Oswald insisted. Oswald sent his lieutenants and his escort away as well. Drinks were handed around the table, for anyone that was not opposed to drinking before noon—everyone took one.

“So, what brings us all together so early?” Natalia asked.

“I think that you all know that the Black Glove aims to be more important than any old night club,” Bobby said. “Mr. Cobblepot has interests here, and will be a third owner once we manage to track down Thomas Blake and buy his shares back from him.”

“So, this is a launching pad for the Penguin's empire, great,” Zsasz said. “What does this have to do with us?”

“Whatever you want it to,” Bobby said, turning to him. “Mr. Cobblepot, Roman, and I have invited you all here to be a part of the future we're starting here. As you all know, the old mob families of Gotham City are done: the Holiday killer is only the nail in their coffin. You've been bored, Victor, haven't you? Mr. Cobblepot thinks that you might want to try your hand at being his new enforcer.”

“Really?” Victor said, eyes lighting up. He turned to Oswald. “Is that right?”

“You strike me as a man that would appreciate having a certain kind of outlet,” Oswald told him. “Am I mistaken?”

“No, sir,” Victor said. “Not at all.”

Bobby took a key card out of his wallet and tossed it across the table to Victor. He picked it up and turned it over. The card was white, with the club name and a glossy graphic of a black glove reaching outward. Instead of merely stating the club's name, the writing beneath the glove stated, 'The Black Glove Society'.

“These cards will allow night and day access to every corner of the club,” Bobby explained. “Only business associates will have them.”

“Do we get a cute little card, too, Bobby?” Natalia asked.

“Everyone knows that the Knight family was a powerful organization once,” Bobby addressed the Knight siblings. “With your father dead, I think that by now you both are aware of the kind of organization he built his fortune on?”

Natalia looked at Anton in concern. They shared an unspoken word with glances, then Anton spoke.

“Yes, we know,” he said. “Our father was an associate of the Maroni family, before all the old families went to shit. But we don't have much of anything now, hardly enough money to maintain our lifestyle.”

“You still own many key properties, and your name commands some loyalty among the old guard,” Oswald pointed out. “I also hear that you've a very talented fighter, Anton, and that your sister is adept at handling finances. I could use the both of you, and the people you still have. All I ask is that you bring me your loyalty.”

Bobby held up two cards in offering. The Knights shared another of those looks that made one think they were psychically linked, and then nodded. Anton took one card, and Natalia took the other, giving Bobby's cheek a kiss.

“Roman, Mr. Cobblepot, and I already have cards, of course,” Bobby said. He removed the last extra card from his wallet. “I think that Simon should be a member of this society, as well.”

“Hold on there, lad,” Oswald said, snatching the card before Bobby could give it to Simon. “We're chums and all, Simon, but what exactly do you bring to this table?”

“You mean, other than my sparkling personality and good looks?” Simon chuckled. “The fact of the matter is that many of the most powerful and important people in Gotham are my patients. I bring influence, friendships, and, let's say, a certain _insight_.”

“Dirty little secrets and bargaining chips, let's say,” Oswald said in amusement. “I like it. All right, Dr. Hurt, we'll give you a go at it. There, now it's settled.”

“The Black Glove Society,” Bobby confirmed.

“So we're a society now,” Zsasz said, tossing his card up and catching it. “Sounds classy.”

“Classy enough to drink on,” Oswald said. “Let's have a toast on it, shall we?”

Champagne was brought over and poured, glasses were raised.

“To the new order,” Oswald toasted.

“To running the streets,” Roman added.

“To taking down the old families,” Bobby said. He thought and spitefully added, “And the Batman.”

“To the Penguin's Empire,” Zsasz chuckled.

They drank to their new start together, each dreaming of the place they planned to forge for themselves in the ruins of the mob families' war. _We're vultures plucking flesh from a corpse,_ Bobby observed. _The Falcone and Maroni families aren't even cold in their graves yet, and we're celebrating. We're sitting here celebrating so many people being killed, so much violence that will inevitably erupt when the Penguin cements his place in Gotham's underworld. We're drinking to the end of dreams … and the end of you, Bruce, the end of Batman._

Bobby emptied his glass and refilled it. _I'm not afraid of you anymore, Bruce. I will certainly drink to that._

* * *

“Hear anything interesting?”

Catwoman jumped to her feet and whipped around, the claws sewn into her gloves arched like talons in the air. The shadows moved and then Batman stood before her. She remained wary, but lowered her hands. She turned down the long-range microphone that she had been listening to the activities inside the Falcone penthouse with.

“Not really,” Catwoman admitted. “Have you happened upon anything interesting?”

“Not yet,” Batman said. “You shouldn't be here. No one near the Falcones is going to be safe tonight.”

Catwoman walked up to him, drawing a talon lightly down his chest. “Including you.”

“I'm not afraid of Holiday,” Batman said. He grabbed her wrist, holding her hand off of himself. “You should be.”

“How do you know that I'm not Holiday?” Catwoman pointed out, snatching her hand away. She walked around Batman, looking him up and down. She could very well see the lines of Bruce Wayne's body beneath the suit, recognized the part of his face that was exposed, the blue, steely eyes beneath the mask. “I'm a woman, a .22 caliber pistol would fit my hand—” She took Batman's gloved hand into her own. “—don't you think? And I do have an interest in Carmine Falcone.”

“You could be Holiday,” Batman said, stopping her circling by gripping her shoulder. “What _is_ your interest in Falcone?”

Catwoman said nothing, striding away from him. She put her goggles down over her eyes and peered into the Falcone penthouse window opposite her rooftop.

“Could it have anything to do with this?”

Catwoman turned to him, removing the goggles again. Her green eyes went wide and she snatched the object Batman had been holding out to her. She cradled the small gold locket in the palm of her hand, opening it and looking at the picture of a beautiful woman that shared her eyes.

“Where did you get this?” Catwoman hissed at Batman, drawing her whip. “Did you take it from me?”

“You dropped it,” Batman said. “When you had the struggle at Bruce Wayne's manor.”

Catwoman fastened the necklace around her neck, where it hung beneath the collar she wore.

“Your mother?” Batman asked.

“Yes.”

Batman was decent enough not to voice the obvious conclusion. Selina was a bit amused to see that he shared her belief that knowing was enough.

“You're not Holiday,” Batman said.

“How do you know?” Catwoman asked, not looking at him. “How could you possibly know?”

“You were dancing with Bruce Wayne at the Gotham Regal that night,” Batman said. His voice softened as he added, “Selina.”

Catwoman turned to him, smirking. She crossed her arms.

“And how do you know that?” she asked. “Batman?”

She thought that Batman's lips twitched with the urge to smile.

“I was in the neighborhood,” was all he said.

Catwoman made a small, amused sound. She turned her head, touching her hood where it fell over her ear. She listened for a minute, then smiled ruefully.

“Well, while I've been trying to prove that I could be Holiday, Holiday has been giving me an alibi,” she told Bruce. “Several of Maroni's top men have been shot outside his restaurant, by Holiday.”

“Maroni's men?”

“I guess you've been watching the wrong building,” Catwoman said, packing up her gear. “You'll have to leave Falcone to me, if you want to have any chance of catching Holiday.”

“You should still stay away from Falcone,” Batman told her.

“I'll take it under advisement,” Selina lied. She stepped onto the ledge behind her effortlessly. “Ta, Bats.”

Catwoman flipped back off the roof, falling down into the city. Bruce was uneasy leaving her free to provoke Falcone, but he had to trust her to take care of herself. He was losing Holiday, could feel him slipping through his fingers, and he was determined not to let the murderer escape to kill another day.


	8. The Big Picture

[February 15, 2015]

“You look like hell, Bruce.”

Bruce gave Harvey Dent such a look that even the loud-mouthed District Attorney shut up. He scratched the back of his hair, cleared his throat, and turned back to the documents in the manila folder in his hand. Bruce had not intended to glare at his friend, but he was in a foul mood. He _did_ look like hell, and he knew it. What else should he look like, after spending a sleepless, lonely Valentine's Day night hunting futilely for Holiday? Not that Harvey could possibly know that.

“None of us are going to be looking our best until Holiday is put behind bars, Harvey,” Gordon said, echoing Bruce's thoughts. “Falcone and Maroni are each blaming the other for these Holiday hits. Maroni will hit at Falcone soon, and the hits are going to be traded back and forth until the streets are a war zone.”

“Such a shame,” Harvey said cynically, “the sharks are eating each other.”

“Would you please stop acting like this is a good thing?” Gordon said wearily. “Think of the collateral damage, Harvey.”

“You kidding me?” Harvey said. “I _am_ the collateral damage. Gilda was collateral damage. I'm just sayin' that at least something good is comin' outta this thing.”

“Nothing good can come out of this war,” Bruce said sharply. He caught himself and put a hand on Harvey's shoulder to take the sting out of it. “You know that, Harvey.”

Harvey looked at him, shrugged his hand off his shoulder. He said nothing, flipping through his papers. Bruce went to speak to him again, but they were interrupted by a tall, skeletal man. He removed glasses from over his icy blue eyes and introduced himself as Dr. Jonathan Crane, down from Arkham Asylum.

“I'll be determining whether, ah—” Dr. Crane tilted the folder in Harvey's hand down enough so that he could read it. “—whether Edward Nigma Nashton is mentally fit for trial.”

“He's fit as a riddle.” Harvey winced at the slip. “I mean, as a _fiddle_ , doc. Ahem. Just get him to the stand, all right?”

“I will do my job, Mr. Dent,” Crane said coolly. “Nothing else.”

With that, Crane went into the interrogation room that had been prepared for his interview with the Riddler.

“Doctors,” scoffed Harvey. “Can't convict with them, can't convict without them, can't shoot them. Jim, let me know when beanpole in there is done with Nigma. Bruce, let's get a quick lunch, all right?”

Harvey walked off without waiting for an answer. Bruce and Gordon shared a look. Not feeling he had much choice, Bruce followed Harvey Dent out of the GCPD. Harvey was already a quarter way down the block by the time Bruce caught up to him.

“Harvey, wait,” Bruce said, jogging up to him. “Hold on a second.”

“What, what?” Harvey asked. “I'm hungry. I don't want to stand around freezing and starving to death.”

“Why don't we go somewhere quiet?” Bruce suggested. “The Gotham Regal is right around the corner.”

“Yeah?” Harvey said, glancing in the Regal's direction. “I dunno, that place is pretty pricey. You're paying, right?”

“I'm paying.”

“Okay then,” Harvey grinned.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, since Harvey was intently going through e-mails on his phone. At the Regal, Bruce requested his table and they were tucked away in the private little niche. Bruce was stabbed with the memory of sitting at his private table with Luis, and a flash of anger shot through him. _It should have been Harvey,_ he thought. _Maybe it was wrong to push Harvey away. I wouldn't encourage him into betraying his wife's memory, but I shouldn't have put so much distance between us. I let Bobby slip away after we broke up, and look at how that's turned out._

“I could spend several months' salary on a meal here,” Harvey said as he looked over the menu. His brow furrowed. “And I can't even pronounce half of it.”

“I'll order,” Bruce said, taking the menu from him. “You'll have to trust me.”

“Sure, s'long as it's free,” Harvey said. “Just don't send for anything weird like goose liver or snails or any other 'delicacy' only a billionaire could love. I didn't eat at all last night, I could use a steak of some kind.”

“Rare or well done?”

“Either, just not medium anything.”

Bruce had never met anyone that had no preference between rare and well done, but he did not comment. He ordered for them, choosing a well done cut for Harvey and a chicken dish for himself. They drank water, and Harvey ate the appetizer bread sticks so ravenously that Bruce suspected he had not eaten much for the past few days.

“So,” Harvey said lightly, though his eyes were hard, “you and Luis Castell? What was that about? You have a fetish for prosecutors or something?”

“That was—”

“And where is Luis anyway?” Harvey asked. “He called in to take some time off. You break his heart and cause a meltdown?”

“Luis fooled me,” Bruce said. “He wasn't the man that I thought he was. He wasn't—”

“Me?”

“No,” Bruce said softly. “He wasn't you.”

Harvey considered that while the waiters served them. Bruce was grateful that the meal stalled the conversation. For a man that knew so much about psychology and human nature, Bruce had to admit that he was absolutely lost when dealing with people he cared for. He did not know how Bobby threw himself into relationships so trustingly, so completely, or even how Harvey and Jim took a leap as significant as marriage.

Harvey was too hungry to think about Bruce's intentions. He had spent Valentine's Day in emotional turmoil, drinking all his meals while he ignored his phone altogether. First, he had driven out to the spot where his house had once stood. He walked through the slushy snow that was running over the charred ground, touching the few blackened beams that remained from the shed's structure, letting the soot blacken the plastic-like skin regrowth on his burned hand. He had finished an entire bottle of gin at the house, and had driven back to Gotham recklessly, half-hoping to crash.

Harvey had survived the drive back to his apartment, and finished a bottle of vodka in the kitchen. He brought a second bottle up to the bedroom that held so many precious memories of his time with Gilda, drunk enough to let the tears flow freely. He did not quite remember the rest of his day (or had it been night by then?) but he did have a recollection of talking to Gilda, clutching the sheets that still held traces of her perfume, as he cried and drank until he passed out. He still thought it was a small miracle (or a tragedy) that he had not died of alcohol poisoning.

“Are you taking the lithium?”

Bruce saw the predictable spark of fury in Harvey's eyes when he looked up from his plate. Harvey chewed slowly, and the anger passed like clouds over a night sky.

“No,” Harvey said. “I don't need it. I'm handling it. I'm not good, but I'm dealing.”

Bruce had learned his lesson from his dealings with Bobby, and was determined not to let his controlling nature take hold of him. He nodded, leaving Harvey to his decision. It was a harder thing to do than Bruce expected.

 _I am a control freak,_ he thought, chagrined. _I control Gotham by caging its wolves, I control my life with all the physical disciplines that I've learned over the years, I control my mind with education. I control everything that I can, and I still wish that I could control the people I love. I know that my need to control things is due to my being a Type A, like Bobby said, and the paranoid fear I have of losing everyone I love. I've spent years training myself to know how to accept the world and life as it comes, to not react to the inevitable, to detach myself from emotion enough to deal with what I can rationally and let go of the things that I can't, or shouldn't, change. I've always been capable of doing just that, and now I'm going to do just that …_

… _no matter how much I want to do anything I can to get Harvey medicated again. But Harvey isn't like Bobby, he doesn't want to be told what to do and punished for his own good. Harvey was raised by a man that controlled him for no other reason than cruelty, he's understandably adverse to any authority other than his own. He listens to Jim as much as he will listen to anyone, but he's known Jim since childhood. Why **would** Harvey take the advice of a younger billionaire near-stranger that enabled him in cheating on his wife?_

“So, why do you want to know whether I'm medicated or not?” Harvey asked. “Are you afraid that I'll throw myself at you again? Or that I'm won't?”

“I'm only worried about _you_ , Harvey,” Bruce said. “I feel that I've let our friendship slip away from me ever since the Frost Ball. To be honest, I was isolated during my time traveling, and I never had to divide friendship from romance. In the places that I went, people were … away from themselves, or they knew themselves well enough to be decisive. I became too used to taking mutual attraction for granted, and it's made me irresponsible.”

“No, that isn't fair,” Harvey said. “You're young, you're single, and I've known that you like me since the night we met. My loyalty, or disloyalty, to Gilda, that was on me and me alone. I never blamed you for that night, Bruce, and I don't blame you now. I just don't understand why you've been acting like I'm patient zero now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You avoid me like a disease, you won't even touch me anymore, and—” Harvey paused, turning his eyes to the ceiling in annoyance as Bruce belied his last observation by putting a hand on his. “—and you try not to be alone with me. Until today, that is.”

“You're mourning the love of your life, Harvey,” Bruce said. “I let myself have you despite everything and everyone else, and that _is_ on me. I was selfish. I should have opened the car door and thrown you right out of it.”

“You know I would have hated you for that, right?”

“I would rather have had you hate me than yourself,” Bruce said. “I could never feel as guilty for that night as you must, but I know that I share the blame. Since then, I really haven't known what to do with my feelings for you, Harvey. The idea of giving you another night to blame yourself for, to hate yourself for, that terrifies me.”

“You're protectin' _me_?” Harvey laughed in disbelief. “Are you even thirty yet, Bruce? Christ! You're a sheltered kid, and you're protecting me? You have some kind of complex, Bruce, you really do. Listen, I've been deciding who to screw and who not to screw for some time now, right? I think I can handle my own affairs, literally.”

“Then I'll ask you once, and only once,” Bruce said. “What do you want from me, Harvey?”

Harvey opened his mouth to answer, hesitated, frowned deeply, contemplated as he carved his remaining steak into pieces.

“I don't expect anything from you,” Bruce said. “I'll always be your friend, unless you never want to see my face again.”

“I tried to hate you after the Frost Ball,” Harvey said. “I tried my damnedest to never want to see your face again. I told myself that you were a selfish, arrogant, careless, lying bastard that only cared about yourself and your score count.”

“I don't even have a score count, Harvey.”

“I didn't really believe that you did,” Harvey said with a small smile. “You're a good man, Bruce. To hear Gordon tell it, it runs in the Wayne family. All I know is that I missed having you to talk to. I missed having you as a friend. I never told anyone this but when I was stoned on painkillers after the Joker beat me … I lay in that hospital bed looking at you and Gilda side by side, and I wanted the both of you. God help me, I loved you _both_.”

Bruce could not help the thrill of pleasure hearing Harvey use the 'l' word, even if it had been a slip. Harvey turned a little red, turning his eyes to his quickly-emptying plate.

“Do you think that's possible, Bruce?” Harvey asked, sounding smaller and more confused than Bruce had ever heard him. “Do you think that one person can love two people?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “I think that people are capable of much more love than they allow themselves to give. I think we only get in our own way too often to fully appreciate that.”

“You still love someone else, huh?”

“I love Bobby Halloran, even if we can't be together,” Bruce said. “I'll always love him, and even if we never saw each other again after today, I'll always love you. I love my parents even though they're gone, and I love Alfred as a second father. There are even a few people out there that I still care a lot for … even if they don't deserve it.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“No, I wasn't talking about you,” Bruce said, thinking of Floyd Lawton. “In any case, love takes a lot of forms, and it can even contradict itself. There is nothing wrong with you, Harvey.”

“I don't know about that,” Harvey muttered.

“You haven't answered my question.”

“I know.”

Harvey finished eating his steak, making record time, Bruce noted. Bruce pressed the button for service, and the waiters appeared, also in record time. The dishes were cleared away and Bruce ordered dessert. Harvey sent for a top shelf bottle of bourbon.

“Might as well take advantage,” he said with a roguish smile. “You're still payin', right?”

“I'm still paying,” Bruce said. “But Harvey, it's the middle of the day.”

“I'll survive,” Harvey said flatly. “If I'm going to give you an answer, I need some fortitude, right?”

“You would have made an excellent defense lawyer if you had gone another way,” Bruce told him. “Why didn't you? Become a defense lawyer, I mean?”

“Couldn't afford it,” Harvey snorted. “My scholarship got me through college and I worked and decimated my credit to get through law school. The competition in law is so fierce in Gotham that I just couldn't go any further. Besides, I saw what even the dumbest court-appointed defense attorneys did for my dad, always getting him out with less time, always sending him home to beat on me. The idea of defending people like that, or worse, makes my skin crawl.”

The drinks arrived and Harvey joyfully took a few minutes to savor the liquor. Bruce abstained.

“I could get used to this,” Harvey said. “Not that that's going to affect my answer or anything. I think.”

“Do you have an answer?”

“What was the question? Do I want you?” Harvey asked. He went on without waiting for an answer, “I always wanted you, Bruce. I haven't felt this way about another man in a very long time, haven't even thought about swinging that way since college.”

“That wasn't exactly the question,” Bruce said. “I asked what you want from me.”

Harvey went on drinking without answering. Finally, Bruce allowed himself to take a little control; he put a hand over Harvey's glass, stopping his next sip.

“Do you have an answer, Harvey?”

“I have answers, I just wish I knew which one was right,” Harvey said glumly. “I always thought it was stupid, the way people stayed loyal even after death. The vows say _until_ death, right? It doesn't say anything about after. I never even really knew if I believed in an 'after'. Do you?”

“Believe in an afterlife?” Bruce asked, taken off guard by the question. “No, Harvey. I don't.”

“You're lucky,” Harvey said. “It would be simple if I didn't believe, but a part of me still does. A part of me thinks that Gilda had to have found better in death, since she sure as hell didn't find anything great in life.”

“I think she would disagree.”

“She always did see too much in me,” Harvey said with an affectionate smile. “In any case, I would never marry again. I don't think I'd ever marry a guy anyway, no offense, but even if I were willing, I couldn't.”

“I wasn't asking for your hand in marriage,” Bruce said dryly.

“Yeah, I didn't think my hand was the body part you were after,” Harvey snickered. He took a long drink, and his humor was dashed away by grimness. “I want to be alone, Bruce. I want to go on mourning, but I think that if I do, it's going to kill me.”

Harvey went to refill his glass, but Bruce took it from him. Harvey was too solemn to argue. He leaned his head on a hand, his index finger rubbing his temple lightly. The hangover headache that aspirin and coffee had staved off in the morning was beginning to return.

“I tried to die yesterday, Bruce,” Harvey confessed hoarsely. “I drank enough to kill another person. I drove drunk, not paying any attention to the road. If I hadn't been too inebriated to move in the end, I would have done it. I went to sleep considering a handful of aspirin and a razor blade, a bullet through the brain, jumping off a rooftop.”

“It was Valentine's Day,” Bruce said. “I'm sorry. I should have called you, or something.”

“I wasn't in the mood for company,” Harvey said. He took the bottle, uncapped it, and drank directly from it, to Bruce's horror. “But I woke up alive, and I'm not going to give my enemies the satisfaction of committing suicide. So here I am, trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to stay alive.”

Bruce took the bottle from him. “Not like that.”

“Guess not,” Harvey sighed. “So what do I want from you? I don't know, Bruce. I don't know what I want from myself, or from life. I only know that I need something, I need someone. I can't keep going through what I'm feeling alone. If you want to be that someone, well … I would like that, Bruce.”

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked. “I would love to help ease your pain and loneliness, I would love that more than anything, but if you're rushing into this for the wrong reasons, I don't want to make it wo—”

Harvey cut Bruce off with a fast, intense kiss. Bruce's words tumbled from his mouth into Harvey's, and he was too startled to react for a moment. He could feel, almost taste, Harvey's desperation, but the DA was also very certain and assured. Bruce kissed him back finally, but Harvey drew back, smiling sadly.

“Sometimes, your age does show there, Bruce,” Harvey said. “Stop worrying so much about everyone but yourself. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself. Just accept my answer, will you? It's how adults do things.”

Harvey used Bruce's distracted state to take the bottle back from him. He tipped it to his lips and drank. Bruce tried to take it from him, Harvey pulled it back, and Bruce tugged Harvey into another kiss. One of them thumped the bottle onto the table, and Bruce moved his chair around the table to close the distance between them. Taking Harvey into his arms again felt like a bittersweet dream built on the remnants of a nightmare. Bruce did not pull back very far when their lips parted. He stroked the side of Harvey's handsome face, ran a finger over his lips, and looked into the depths of Harvey's dark blue eyes, watching the turns of hope, sorrow, anger, and love alternate stormily.

“What the hell are we doing, Bruce?” Harvey murmured, blushing with guilt and shame. He looked at Bruce, and his affection wore away the doubt. “Oh, to hell with it.”

They kissed again and might have gone on kissing forever if Harvey's phone had not rang. Harvey sat back in his chair with a frustrated sigh, taking out the phone and giving it a murderous look.

“Hell, it's Jim,” Harvey said. “I guess that Crane guy has finished diagnosing Nigma. We better get back.”

Bruce stood, buttoning his jacket. Before Harvey got up, he leaned down and kissed his forehead. The gesture was trite but so sweet that Harvey turned uncomfortably red. He could barely look at Bruce when he stood.

 _I never thought anything could feel so good again,_ Harvey thought. He glanced at Bruce as he slipped on his coat. Bruce gave him a warm smile and kissed the corner of his mouth. _I don't deserve to feel anything nearly this good. I don't deserve to be loved again._

_Fuck it. I can't bear this goddamn emptiness anymore. I can't die yet, not while those bastards are still living it up in Gotham. I do believe I'll see Gilda again somewhere, but until then I have to keep from ever feeling the way I did yesterday. I have to live, I have to take whatever I can to live. Bruce is offering, so I'll take everything he's got to give. I'll let him love me. At least it's not another woman. At least it's not that._

“No PDA,” Harvey told Bruce on the streets in a low voice. “You don't exactly have a low profile, and the last thing I want is the city whispering and winking over our relationship.”

“I'm no friend of the press,” Bruce said. “I don't regret my relationship with Bobby, but having our every step in public photographed and dissected online was maddening.”

“Dehumanizing, isn't it?” Harvey chuckled. “I guess now you know how I feel about being characterized by total strangers. Gotham's white knight, 'Apollo', it's ridiculous. All anyone wants to know anymore is how close you come to fulfilling their fantasy.”

“The ease of spreading information has crippled the quality of information,” Bruce said. “The internet collects more information about a person than any system ever has before, spits it out in less than a second, and enables the public to make snap judgments that are so well-informed that they mistake them for unbiased truth. It only proves the fact that one can know everything and still know nothing at all.”

“It's so difficult for a person to even begin to know themselves,” Harvey said. “How the hell can anyone think that they ever truly know another human being at all, let alone from words on a computer screen?”

“Characterizing people humanizes them, and humanizing people gives society comfort,” Bruce said. “Some people can even find murderers to be sympathetic, others like to think that a certain celebrity would be a friend if they met, or that they have a chance at shaping their life in the image of someone more successful. Humans are insular by nature, no one ever can know another person's mind totally, but it's comforting to find connections and patterns that draw people together. The differences are far too obvious, so it can be refreshing to find the similarities.”

“That makes sense,” Harvey said. The rough edge of his voice had smoothed out again, and he sounded like any young, well-educated man that Bruce had ever heard. “People do often bond over similarities. The more open-minded of us can appreciate differences, but it's usually the similarities that draw people together most strongly.”

“What do you think about us?” Bruce asked. “I don't think we came together over similarities.”

“No, I think not,” laughed Harvey. “It was sex. That's what started it, I think: pure sexual attraction. You were flirting with me from the start.”

“You were the first person I ever did that with back in Gotham,” Bruce said. “I hadn't even considered romance here before that night, I was still too preoccupied with re-familiarizing myself with my home.”

“You've certainly been moving fast ever since,” Harvey said.. “You've managed to break two hearts since November and now you're back to mine.”

“I've had three relationships, actually,” Bruce admitted. “There was a brief encounter with an old lover in November, before the Frost Ball.”

“Oh, so that one-night stand we had was a rebound,” Harvey said. “Explains a lot. Then what? You rebounded from me to Robert Halloran, and from him to Luis Castell?”

“I became used to not being alone,” Bruce said quietly. “Too used to it, I think. I wouldn't count Luis, he … was a mistake.”

“Why?” Harvey asked curiously. “I don't know him too well, but he's always seemed like a good guy.”

“He lied to me,” Bruce said shortly. “I don't know his reasons yet, but he completely manipulated me. It was a mistake.”

“I'll take your word for it, but he still counts,” Harvey insisted. “You slept with him, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Then it counts,” Harvey said. “Where were you when you left Gotham? Under a rock? You're so mature that I don't even realize that you're younger than me sometimes, and then other times you're as clueless as a teenage boy. You really didn't deal with people much overseas, did you?”

“Not in this everyday kind of manner, no,” Bruce said. “I lived with people, but it was to train with them, to study. There was always a feeling of temporariness about those days that sheltered me, and them, from getting too attached. It's been much more difficult to handle than I expected.”

“It's the mundane things that are the hardest, and sometimes the most rewarding,” Harvey said. His thumb stroked the gold wedding band that he still wore on his ring finger. “I never understood that saying, 'don't sweat the small stuff'. The details of a life can be the most important, no matter how small they seem at the time.”

Harvey fell quiet after that, lost in memories. They soon returned to the GCPD, where they met with Gordon and Dr. Crane again. Dr. Crane wiped his glasses on a small cloth and then placed them atop his long, thin nose.

“So, what's the verdict, doc?” Harvey asked. “Nigma is a broken egg but he isn't too scrambled, right?”

“Wrong,” Dr. Crane said sourly. “I am afraid that I found Edward Nigma Nashton to be unfit for trial.”

The babble and motion of the station's activity flowed around Harvey. Bruce watched him anxiously. Harvey stared blankly at Jonathan Crane for a moment.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “I just saw the man this morning. He was fine.”

“He's suffered a breakdown, most likely brought on by the stress of confinement,” Dr. Crane said patiently. “There is no fixed time table for mental deterioration, Mr. Dent.”

“But he was _fine_!” Harvey argued, his temper flaring. “He was the same as always, spouting riddles and wrapped up in his own ego. Jim, tell him!”

“Edward has always been a little off, but he's never lost touch with reality before,” Gordon said. “His belief that Bruce here is Batman was a hypothesis, not a delusion; he based that guess on a lot of research and information that was convincing.”

“Nonetheless, his hypothesis being disproved completely shattered Nigma's fragile ego,” Dr. Crane said. “Without the narcissism he uses to shield himself from the world's derision, he was left defenseless, alone, frightened, ashamed. The last of his resolve must have broken while he was confined in that interrogation room. It is quite common for such situations to cause enough panic to sever the tether to reality.”

“I'm telling you, he's not crazy!” Harvey shouted. “What the hell kind of game are you playing, Crane? Do you just enjoy collecting patients? Don't you have enough out there at Arkham? Why are you doing this?”

“I am only doing my job,” Crane said impatiently. “Why are you so determined to have Nigma stand trial? What is it you fear so much about losing one little conviction?”

“I'm afraid of Nigma getting a short round of therapy in Arkham and being let loose on the streets worse than ever, that's what I'm afraid of,” Harvey said. “I'm afraid of every scumbag in Gotham seeing how easy it is to persuade an overly paranoid psychiatrist to give them an easy ride out of prison.”

“I assure you, DA Dent, Arkham is not an easy ride,” Crane said. “As for your mistrust of my diagnosis, why don't you see for yourself?”

They went into the interrogation room together: Crane, Gordon, Harvey, and Bruce. Edward Nigma tried to get to his feet when they came in, but he was still handcuffed to the table. He struggled against the handcuffs, aggravating the welts that were forming on his wrists. The four men stared at him in horror. Only hours ago, Edward had been his usual smug self, but now he was absolutely haggard. Edward's red hair was almost the shade of his prisoner's uniform, and it stood on end, combining with the rusty stubble on his face in stark contrast to his pallor. It was evident that he had been crying from the dark red circles around his eyes, and the fluids staining his face.

“Please, please, oh please, please, help me!” Edward begged. His voice was hoarse from shouting. “Don't let him hurt me anymore. Please don't let him! Get him out of here! Take him away!”

“His father,” Jonathan Crane explained in an undertone. “He's been having hallucinations of his father.”

“His father was a mean son-of-a-bitch,” Gordon said. He rubbed his face. “I'm going to get some guards to restrain him and put him in one of the padded cells.”

Gordon left. Harvey, Crane, and Bruce remained staring at Nigma, who went on crying and babbling incoherently.

“He's faking,” Harvey finally surmised. He ran up to Edward and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “You're faking, aren't you? You think you're clever, but I'm not buying it. You hear me? I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!”

Edward cowered as Harvey shook him. Bruce let it go on for a moment to test Edward, but he doubted that the physical reactions Edward was displaying were an act. When he began to hyperventilate, Bruce pried Harvey off of him.

“Harvey, that's enough! Stop it. STOP!” Bruce commanded, holding him back firmly. “He isn't faking it, look at him.”

Harvey turned on Bruce as if he might attack him next.

“Look at him,” Bruce repeated. “He needs to be sedated. Harvey, look at his pupils, he isn't acting.”

Logic won through at last. Harvey pushed Bruce off and stormed out of the room. Bruce followed him to Gordon's office. Harvey slammed the door behind himself.

“Damn it,” he said quietly before punching the door with a booming slam. “DAMN IT! DAMN IT! SON-OF-A-BITCH!”

By the time Gordon joined them, his office was nearly destroyed. Harvey had just slumped into the visitor's chair, his eyes covered with a hand. Bruce was massaging his shoulder with one hand, though Harvey didn't seem to notice. Gordon closed the door behind himself and walked around the office wearily.

“It's never enough.” Harvey kicked the leg of Gordon's desk. “It'll never be enough. They always find a way out. They _**always**_ get away. Damn it!”

Gordon picked up his overturned chair and sat behind his desk. He looked exhausted. Harvey got to his feet and paced restlessly.

“What's the point?” Harvey asked, more to himself than the others. “What's the point of any of this? They're always going to get away with it, always!”

“Not always,” Gordon said. “I promise you, Harvey, it won't always be that way. We still have Maroni.”

“For all the good it's doing,” Harvey scoffed. “He's probably down there planning his next move as we speak, and he'll have his people make it, there's no question of that.”

Neither Bruce nor Jim could deny the fact. Harvey rubbed his face with both hands, holding his head in them.

“I'm just tired,” he said. “Jesus Christ, I'm so fucking _tired_.”

“Can we have a moment alone?” Bruce asked Gordon.

“No,” Harvey said, hitting the hand Bruce held out to him away. “No, I don't need … I just need to get out of here. I need to think, alone.”

Bruce caught Harvey at the door and slammed it shut before he escaped. Harvey looked at him in surprise, eyebrows raised.

“You shouldn't be alone,” Bruce told him. “You don't have to be alone anymore, Harvey. We're here. We've always been here for you. You think it's ridiculous that you're called a white knight? Well, stop acting like one.”

Bruce pulled Harvey from the door. He held him close by the shoulder, leaning his head close enough that their foreheads touched. Harvey looked sidelong at him, perplexed by the ease with which Bruce took hold of the situation—and of him.

“If you keep shutting down, you're going to shut off, one way or another,” Bruce said. His hand rested lightly at the nape of Harvey's neck. “Don't shut me out, Harvey.”

Harvey looked at him for a long moment. Bruce hated to think of the struggle he was fighting inside, the tumult of emotions that must be wrenching him from one extreme to the other. Resolution came to Harvey's eyes, and then he kissed Bruce.

Bruce's eyes slid to Gordon, who looked down and cleared his throat awkwardly. Jim had never been able to keep track of who was romancing whom in Gotham before, and now that gender was apparently no longer a guideline, he was even more lost.

“You're right, Bruce,” Harvey said, clapping Bruce on the shoulder. He remembered Gordon and gave the man a flushed smile. “Well … Jim … that happened. Look, I'm not—”

“You don't have to explain anything to me, Harvey,” Jim said, putting a hand up to silence him. “You aren't doing anything wrong.”

Harvey did not look completely convinced, but he shrugged it all off. He burrowed through the mess for a stack of files and sank into a chair.

“I don't give a damn if we lost this Riddler character,” Harvey said. “Let Arkham have him, he's a newbie, a little fish. We have Maroni, and we're going to convict Maroni and anyone else we can connect to him. If Holiday doesn't get him first, we'll get Falcone, too. I just have to focus on the big picture here, right?”

“Right,” Jim and Bruce said simultaneously.

Harvey could tell that they were trying their best to keep his mood even, and embarrassment colored his face. He cleared his throat and turned his face to the files, ignoring them. He kept telling himself that he needed to get his temper under control, but it was getting harder and harder to stifle these rages. Sometimes the pure, blind fury felt _good_ , simply because it was so clear; sorrow, love, morals, all of it was burned away by the sheer heat of it.

Bruce gave Harvey's shoulder a squeeze and took his leave of Jim and Harvey.

“I really didn't mean for it to happen,” Harvey said quietly, rearranging papers and bustling about the office. “Yesterday was just … and then today Bruce … It just … happened.”

“You're not doing anything wrong, Harvey,” Jim repeated. “You can't beat yourself up like this. You're only human, you're not … 'Apollo'.”

Harvey chuckled, shaking his head.

“No,” he agreed. “No, the gods have all died in Gotham City.”

— **END —**


End file.
